


Game of Hearts

by hannah_jpg



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-26
Updated: 2018-01-18
Packaged: 2019-02-22 03:57:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 30,835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13158792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hannah_jpg/pseuds/hannah_jpg
Summary: Humiliated at her waning popularity in Minas Tirith, Lothíriel seeks to regain her reputation: by snagging the King of Rohan, of course. What could go wrong?





	1. Chapter 1

_ Summer 3019 TA., Minas Tirith _

It was the first time Lothíriel had  _ ever _ sat out a dance.

Out of the torchlight and pressed to the wall so that none could witness her humiliation, she seethed as she watched the happy couples twirl around the great hall. Then the fire of indignation set her veins ablaze, and she snapped open her fan to cover her dark scowl. Since she had first begun attending balls and court functions at the age of fifteen, Lothíriel had always enjoyed the highest degree of popularity amongst the ladies. Due to her title, perhaps, or her father’s riches—but that did not signify. She had been enough to please the young lords for years! What had changed?

The answer came far too quickly to her resentful mind: she was no longer the highest-ranking woman. 

The new Queen was sought for by everybody, and beneath her envy Lothíriel could not blame them one bit. Queen Arwen was beautiful—ethereally so. No one could compete. Lothíriel gritted her teeth; knowing her own shortcomings hardly lessened her ire. 

Perhaps if the Queen had been the only competition Lothíriel might not have been so slighted. But there was Faramir’s new woman, too. Lothíriel; being the daughter of a prince rather than the niece of a king, presently outranked Lady Éowyn. But it was clear that Faramir and Éowyn would soon wed, and then Éowyn would be a princess. Again, were this the only offense Lothíriel could have overlooked it, but truthfully she blamed Éowyn more than anything else for her own unpopularity. She had brought a new style in Minas Tirith to emulate and adore: blonde hair and an open manner. Lady Éowyn laughed often and spoke candidly, and to her men flocked with stars in the their eyes. She was a  _ war hero _ , after all.

And so Lothíriel was left alone, without even the company of her brothers, as she stared out at the court which had so callously discarded her. The young lords she had favored with smiles and dances had taken their pick from the other ladies of the Riddermark who had come to accompany Theoden King’s bier back to Rohan. She was terribly, enormously bitter. It was not fair. Not in any sense. 

A pair of matronly ladies were taking the perimeter of the hall, and Lothíriel shrunk back. Oh, how embarrassed she would be if they recognized her! Had she known this would happen, she might have chosen a more nondescript frock…

“I suppose it would be too much to wish the King would notice my daughter,” one of the ladies was saying with a sigh. “I could not begrudge her to live such a distance away, if she could have the security of being queen!”

Lothíriel’s ears perked at this. 

“The King of Rohan is a harder man to catch than you think,” the other replied. “Why, I’ve pushed my own Wilrith in his way a hundred times if I have done it once, and courteous as he is to dance with nearly every young lady—he has shown no further intentions. Not to any woman! Utterly foolish—he is a king, and  _ must _ wed.” The women passed right in front of her, and above the rim of her fan Lothíriel watched them continue on. 

“Perhaps Wilrith is not the type of woman he wishes to marry,” the first lady pointed out, a little scornfully. 

The second woman sniffed. “How can she not be?”

Lothíriel did not hear the reply, which would surely be the start of an argument. But it did not matter—she had more important matters on her mind. A chance at becoming a queen? She liked the sound of that—she would, without a doubt, regain the admiration she had lost to Queen Arwen and Lady Éowyn. Did she dare attempt to snare the elusive King of Rohan? She had not given him much thought before; he was too blond and too bearded for her taste, and she had never lacked admirers and been prompted to search elsewhere. But for her pride? Lothíriel might overlook his unusual looks. 

Bravely she peeled herself from the wall, striding purposefully towards the dancing and blinking in the sudden bright light. Between two older men, she peeked at the dancers—she saw Faramir, Amrothos, and Erchirion, all dancing with blonde women, Éowyn with a dark-haired man who had brought Lothíriel flowers on her eighteenth birthday (this remembrance made her scowl resentfully), and there! The King of Rohan, easily recognizable with his great height, broad shoulders, and glinting golden hair. He, apparently alone of the highest-ranking men, was paying courtesy to dark-haired women. His present partner Lothíriel knew on sight, and she was full aware that Numriel had been accompanied by her mother that night, and that was where she would be returned at the end of the dance. 

Lothíriel swept through the crowd, chin held high, until she came to be standing by the lady’s mother. Lady Nimrith was a plump, good-humored matron, easy to engage in conversation. Lothíriel had known the lady for years, and therefore knew of her weakness for speaking on subspecies of flora. It was not Lothíriel’s best-known topic, but she knew enough to start Lady Nimrith talking, and to encourage her to continue. 

The music ceased, and Lothíriel could not help a shiver of anticipation crawl up her spine and the conversation broke off. She straightened her shoulders, casting her cool eyes round, determined not to be overlooked. Towards them walked the King of Rohan with Numriel on his arm. Lady Nimirith was smiling broadly, and she curtseyed when they approached.

“I thank you for the dance,” the king said politely, and he gave the girl to her mother. Numriel was looking pale and wide-eyed, and her fingers were white-knuckled on her mother’s arm. Lothíriel glanced skeptically at this—what had the man done to her? Numriel usually did not lack confidence around men. 

“Thank you for returning my daughter, my lord king,” Lady Nimirith said. “Is the dancing to your liking?”

“Oh, indeed it is,” the king replied merrily. “I have never beheld a room filled with such beauty!” Though he smiled as he said it, Lothíriel suspected there was insinuation in his voice. Indeed, as she tried to understand this, his eyes fell upon her, and his smile broadened. Lothíriel blinked. His gaze was terribly intense; perhaps it was not such a wonder that Numriel had been rendered speechless. 

Lady Nimirith saw the glance between them, and hastened to say, “Have you met Lady Lothíriel, my lord?”

“Nay, I have not had the pleasure.” He held his hand out to her, and she placed hers in it. Lothíriel willed herself not to tremble—his hand was awfully warm. And huge. “I have met your brothers and father many times,” he told her. 

“Yes, they speak of you often, my lord,” Lothíriel said, and forced the spell to break. She smiled coyly up at him, and continued, “I thought I might discover for myself if their compliments to your person are at all accurate!”

The King laughed then, a loud, unabashed sound that might have made her flush were she not determined to keep a hold of herself. “Come then,” he said, nodding towards the new sets of couples lined up to dance. “Let us find the truth.”

Well! Securing a dance from the king was considerably easier than Lothíriel had anticipated. Perhaps somehow wrangling him into making her a queen would not be such a challenge... But she put away those schemes for later, and contented herself to gaze adoringly up at him as he drew her near. His eyes were a deep, warm brown, and if she were not mistaken, there was a flicker of amusement in them. She suppressed her annoyance—what was so amusing? Not  _ her _ , she hoped.

“Well?” the king asked after a moment of dancing. “What have your brothers said of me?”

Lothíriel thought quickly to reply, “They have said that you are a doughty fighter, my lord, and that no enemy could stand against you without falling.”

The king’s brows lifted as he grinned. “Well, I can hardly prove that here, now can I?”

“You had best not,” she agreed. “And I do  _ hope _ there are no enemies in the hall tonight…” Privately she recalled Queen Arwen and Lady Éowyn, though she did not allow the shadow to cross her face. 

“What else have your brothers said? I confess myself curious.” 

There was more than curiosity in his eyes—she saw glee, and too much to it to be allowed. It irked Lothíriel to feel as though she were not quite in charge. Boldly she declared a lie, “They told me that you spend two hours every day grooming your stallion!” 

The glee left his eyes, and it its place, startled confusion. Then his expression cleared into joviality again, and she felt his hand tighten around her waist. “Is that so?” he asked, laughing. “Hardly a sin or a virtue, I should think. Merely an odd quirk of nature.”

“But is it true, my lord?” Lothíriel pressed him. 

“I cannot comment,” he said, and leaned down close to her face to whisper, “I will not reveal so much of myself where others may hear!”

His reaction was more strange than supposedly grooming his stallion for two hours every day, Lothíriel thought uncharitably. Was he so determined to be difficult to charm? She tried a different tactic, though inwardly she burned with resentment as she said light-heartedly, “I must thank you for being the only man here who has any interest in those of us with dark hair, my lord! I have lost all my usual partners to your people—it seems blonde women have become all the rage.”

The king glanced around the hall at this, taking in the sight of the other couples. He was smiling when he turned back to Lothíriel, and the suddenness of his gaze nearly made her stumble. “I did not realize there was such a division,” he commented. “You ought not praise me for such a thing, for I am as selfish as any other man here—I prefer dark-haired women, myself.”

“Really! Despite that you come from a land of fair hair?”

He nodded and said gravely. “My taste changed when I first beheld the Evenstar.”

Lothíriel wondered, with some jealousy, of what or whom he was speaking—before she recalled that Amrothos had once refered to Queen Arwen as the Evenstar. She forced a smile, and tried to keep the spite out of it. “And the menfolk of my nation similarly changed upon seeing your sister, my lord.”

“Éowyn has been sought-after more than usual,” he said thoughtfully. “I attributed it to no longer threatening to stomp on the feet of any man who approached her.”

“Oh!” Lothíriel bit her lip to keep from giggling. “I suppose I have never asked my cousin how exactly he managed to win Lady Éowyn’s heart—perhaps I ought to. My curiosity is piqued.”

“ _ I _ have never dared to ask; there are some things an older brother does not wish to know.”

The humor of the king surprised Lothíriel, even as she joined him in laughter. She had not expected this of him; perhaps she thought he would be like King Elessar—distant and regal, or her father—sharp and venerable. This man was positively good-natured! There was no other word for it. It gave her hope; whereas it would be impossible to deceive either Elessar or Imrahil, Lothíriel imagined the King of Rohan’s nature made him more trusting. More...persuadable. Certainly he showed no signs of suspecting anything. 

“I think,” he drawled, breaking through her thoughts. “That since I have obliged you by responding to the gossip you have heard of  _ me _ , you ought to oblige me regarding the gossip  _ I _ have heard of you.”

Lothíriel bit her lip, barely containing her panic. She had a fair idea of what rumors had been spread about her around both Minas Tirith and Dol Amroth, and had no desire to face them to this man. Nor did she wish to bring to light anything that might turn him against her. 

“That is hardly fair,” she said flippantly, giving a careless toss to her head. It was difficult, while dancing, but she thought she managed fairly well. “Gossips never portray a titled woman fairly. And more than that, a woman must keep her own secrets, my lord.”

  
The king gazed at her for a moment, and then broke into a smile. “I am corrected,” he said. “I apologize for even suggesting it—but in my defense, I was referring to what your brothers have told me.”

Lothíriel pinked at her blunder. “Oh—well, perhaps that would be alright.”

“Did you truly upend a tray of tarts upon Erchirion’s head when he said your hemline was uneven?” There was no mistaking the king’s amusement, and her flush deepened to a hot red. 

“I was  _ eleven _ ,” she ground out between her teeth. “Let us not judge each other on the follies of our youths, my lord.”

The king pursed his lips, and made a show of bending slightly to his left to stare at the hem of her frock at their feet. He straightened, and grinned. “It looks very straight to me,” he said pointedly. “And a very pretty gown, I must say—it becomes you well. I have never seen a pair of eyes so beautifully dark blue.”

The compliment took Lothíriel aback, but she was quick to recover. It was easy to dismiss the king’s sincerity as simply another flirtation. And she had a queenship in mind. “Why, thank you, my lord,” she demurred, and lowered her lashes. Her best attributes—or so the young men had always told her. Eyes like the mysterious sea, framed by the blackest of lashes. To her astonishment, the king chuckled at this. 

“Well now, I daresay you have been told so before,” he said. “Perhaps I should compliment a part of you which hasn’t been before.”

“Oh! That is shockingly impertinent, my lord!” Lothíriel, though flushing, could not help wanting to laugh aloud at his comment, which could hardly be taken seriously. But she could not appear too eager—that was the surest way to lose a man’s attention. Men preferred shy, prudish women; at least, most Gondorian men did. She wondered if this man of Rohan was different in that regard, too.

“You are right,” he said with a grin, interrupting her thoughts. “I should not have said it. It just goes to show that I have learned very little during my stay in Minas Tirith—I still say exactly what I shouldn’t!”

“Is that how you have frightened all the ladies?” Lothíriel teased. “I am sure Numriel looked as though she might faint when you gave her to her mother.”

“Ah!” The king looked woeful. “I only told her she was an excellent dancer. I did not realize it would affect her so!”

Lothíriel privately doubted this; now that she was dancing with him, she understood how a woman might feel as though the floor was being swept out from under her feet. He had a way of muddling her mind, and she suspected that other ladies were not immune to his charm, either. 

The dance ended on this consideration, and the king released her, though he raised a hand to her chin to tilt it upwards. This intense scrutiny made her blush against her will, and she blinked to have his warm eyes so close to her own. 

“You look as though you’ll survive,” he said cheerily. “I would be distraught if  _ you  _ fainted because of my dreadful flirting.”

“And you would have to live with the guilt forever,” Lothíriel smirked. He laughed aloud, taking her arm to lead her away from the dancing area. Her chaperones were all otherwise occupied, and ignoring the humiliation of having to be left alone, she insisted that the king leave her anyway. This did not appear to sit well with him, but he obeyed, and kissed her hand before disappearing into the crowd. 

As she walked home with Amrothos, she reflected upon that night and determined it a success. Assuming that the king admired that she kept her head in his presence better than other women, she hoped that he would be inclined to seek her out again. Constant companionship between them would be her hope now…

And she had a plan for the morning.


	2. Chapter 2

Lothíriel was shaken awake by an apologetic maid before dawn after a scant few hours' sleep. Her limbs were heavy and cried out to be used so early, but she pushed those thoughts determinedly away and rose from the warmth and comfort of her bed. She had a king to catch.

Her riding habit—the only riding habit she owned—had been laid out, and after washing her face with cool water, Lothíriel donned the soft grey velvet. Despite not caring for horses much in general, she could not very well avoid it entirely and so if she must ride, she would do so in style. The outfit was uncommonly attractive on her; accentuating her trim waist with the hem brushing against the top of her jaunty boots. It was enough to bolster her confidence despite the early hour. Her stomach rolled unpleasantly in rebellion to this activity, so she forewent breakfast and went straight for the stables.

She did take time to thank her lucky stars that her father had offered his stables for the king of Rohan and the majority of his party. It could not have worked out better if she had planned it herself, Lothíriel thought wryly. Of course—she would take credit for what happened that day, assuming it was in her favor.

She had overheard the king of Rohan the previous night, out of sight behind a pillar, speaking to his men. Between them they had agreed on an early morning ride before they would be required to attend meetings. Lothíriel would wager that none of the other ladies hoping to snag the king were as clever as herself, and therefore had not heard the conversation nor decided to accidentally meet him in the stables. It would be out of sight of other women and competition, and Lothíriel was positively gleeful at the prospect.

Until she saw the horses.

The smell of beast and manure, and the soft  _huffs_  as they breathed nearly sent her back, but she steeled herself and pressed forward. Unpleasant, but not enough to stop her. A little time with horses was certainly worth regaining her pride.

There were voices coming from outside—Lothíriel had cut it close! She rushed towards the stall which held one of her brother's horses, and began to stroke its nose. The horse was unimpressed by this show of reluctant affection, but she pretended to coo at it anyway. There was a creak from the main doors as they opened.

The talking ceased. Which did not matter since she did not know the tongue of the Rohirrim anyway. She ruffled her fingers through the horse's mane, studiously ignoring any stares at being in the stables at dawn. Most ladies did not do such a thing as general rule, preferring to keep later hours, and she hoped it would increase her chances of success.

"Lothíriel?"

She started, and turned. The king of Rohan, heading a group of five or six men, gazing in surprise at her. He was looking unnaturally fresh for such an early hour, and wore the same plain tunic and breeches as the others. Lothíriel returned the smile shyly.

"My lord! I did not expect to see you this morn."

"Nor I you," he said, grinning as he strode towards her. The men dispersed to find their own mounts, clearly dismissing her as their king's business. Said king bowed low to her before regarding the horse. "Are you on good terms with Amrothos's mount, then?" he asked, scratching its whiskery chin.

"Of course," Lothíriel said stoutly, justifying the lie by remembering that she and the horse were not on  _bad_  terms; not precisely.

"What is his name? I do not recall Amrothos ever mentioning it." The king glanced at her, and though he was smiling, there was a shrewdness in his usually warm eyes.

"Oh—it is, um—Siladur."

"Siladur?" The king's brows rose.

"Yes.  _Shining victory_ , in Sindarin."

"Do you ride him often?"

Lothíriel blinked in the face of this unexpected inquiry—the answer was, of course,  _no I have never ridden him before and nor do I ever wish to_. But the king's interest seemed to imply more than a pleasant inquiry. "I have not for some time," she said, choosing an answer between the truth and what he would likely want to hear.

"If you have no other plans this morning—if you are not waiting for anyone else, that is—I would be happy to accompany you on your ride."

Shining victory indeed! She pretended to consider this waveringly, biting her lip as if conflicted. "I would be happy to accept your companionship, my lord," Lothíriel said, and smiled up at him.

"Éomer," the king said, returning her smile. "You must call me Éomer, if we are to be friends."

"Éomer, then." Her stomach turned with pleasure. How well her plan was unfolding!

"May I saddle him for you?" Éomer glanced over at his men, and then leaned close to her to whisper, "I have a squire who normally saddles my stallion for me—sometimes I feel quite useless! I hope you will grant me this opportunity to be of use."

Lothíriel giggled conspiratorially. "I suppose I will!" she said. "I was thinking I would take Morfast—he is in the last stall over there."

"Not Siladur?" Éomer's brows rose at this. "Here I thought you were romancing him before you ride him. Is that not how it is usually done?"

Her cheeks pinked—had he meant his comment in the way it sounded? Great Ulmo below, he was a  _vastly_  bewildering man. "I can greet him if I wish," she said stiffly. "There is no custom against  _that_."

"I suppose not!" he agreed. "Well—why do you not ride him anyway? I doubt Amrothos will be up before noon today, and we shall certainly return before then! It can be our secret."

A secret! Lothíriel felt secret smugness bubble inside her, and she assented before she realized what she had assented to. Éomer grinned, transforming his expression into one of mischief, and he unbolted the stall door to enter. She backed away quickly at the sight of Siladur's thick legs and huge hooves, nearly bumping into a stablehand. Fortunately Éomer did not see it—he fetched a blanket and saddle from where they were stored on pegs in the stall, and began to whistle an unfamiliar tune.

Lothíriel felt awkward, standing in the middle of the stables, watching his men lead their own saddled mounts towards the courtyard. They were all so large! Both the horses and the men—even Éomer's squire, who could be no more than thirteen, was taller than her. She felt very, very small, and not a little overwhelmed. Perhaps it would be better when she was astride Siladur.

Éomer led Siladur from the stall by the reins, and held out his free hand to her with a beaming smile. "Shall we?" he asked.

She nodded primly and took his hand. To her surprise he laced his fingers with hers instead of holding them. Fortunately he did not see her flush with confused embarrassment as they walked out of the stables. The morning was no longer grey but a watery yellow, peeking through thin clouds and causing the fog about the city to shimmer. In the slight chill of early spring, huffs of plumed breath were coming from the horses.

"May I help you mount?"

Lothíriel smiled up at the king, whose hair glinted gold in the sun. His warm brown eyes held hers, and there was a strange swoop of heat in her belly. Taken aback by this, her response was stammered, "I—I thank you for your courtesy, my lord."

"Éomer," he corrected her.

"Éomer."

Before she could say anything else, his huge hands encircled her waist and lifted her up. Panicked, Lothíriel grabbed onto poor Siladur's mane, and the horse stamped underneath her as she was set gently in the saddle. Her face burned scarlet at both Éomer's overly-familiar touch and how it was intensifying the heat she felt. She gave her attention to swinging her leg over the other side, adjusting her seat so she was straight-backed. The blasted horse was so  _wide_! Her legs stretched painfully, and she was sure she looked a fool atop such a massive warhorse. Éomer was chuckling under his breath as he adjusted the stirrups for her. She decided not to ask, and adopted a prim expression.

"Are you comfortable?" he asked when he was finished, handing her the thick leather reins. She took them, thankful for the riding gloves she wore which disguised her clammy hands. Lothíriel managed a demure smile.

"Indeed, thank you."

There was withheld laughter twitching his lips, and he left her to fetch his own horse. Lothíriel glanced down at the ground and immediately regretted it as her head swam with dizziness. But she gritted her teeth and looked around at the others. Éomer's men were all mounted and talking amongst themselves, not sparing her more than a curious stare every so oven. She wondered if Éomer often invited ladies on rides. An odd sense of jealousy twisted her gut, but there was no time to consider it, for Éomer trotted towards in her direction and reined in alongside her, astride a stallion as tall as Siladur.

"Will a trek along the perimeter of the city suit you?" he asked, eyes twinkling.

"Oh, certainly, certainly." Lothíriel dug the heels of her boots into Siladur's side, but the horse did not budge. She tried again, and his ears twitched. Oh, no—was Éomer looking at her? She glanced at him, saw his amusement, and grimly dug in her her heels a third time.

Siladur snorted and pranced forward, and she pulled the reins taunt in sudden fright. But this the horse ignored, and trotted out the gate with its confused rider bouncing on her saddle. Were there snickers behind her? Lothíriel clenched her jaw, vowing destruction on  _anyone_  laughing.

Éomer caught up with her in the deserted street, and primly she held her chin high before he spoke. "I am not entirely convinced Siladur likes your touch," he deadpanned.

"No, I think not," she said shortly. Only recalling her purpose in enduring this humiliation kept her temper in check, and the agitation of being so far above the stone-flagged street. If Siladur stumbled and she fell out of the saddle, she would be dead for sure. How in Arda could  _anyone_ like riding?

"Do you prefer the company of horses when your feet are safely planted on the ground?" Éomer said, and though he kept his lips pressed together, Lothíriel was sure he was teasing. She relaxed—teasing was a step forward—but his thinking she did not care for horses was not.

"Oh, not at all!" she said airily. "I do enjoy riding, very much—but Siladur and I are unaccustomed to each other. And I worry for Amrothos's reaction when he finds I have filched his horse," she added, glancing over at Éomer with a colluding smile. He laughed.

"If Amrothos mentions it, tell him it was my doing," he told her. "I forced you into it, after all. And I have the excuse of not being a meddlesome little sister, but a man who risked the goodwill of his friend for the sake of riding with a pretty lady."

"Meddlesome!" Lothíriel cried, color suffusing her cheeks. "I take exception to that!"

"I was only thinking of my own sister—I apologize."

If she was not mistaken, there was an unfamiliar weight in his voice, and she looked at him curiously. Éomer saw this, and relented with unusual seriousness. "I should not have extended Éowyn's opinions to yours," he said. "She only said something to me last night which has been on my mind. Again, I apologize."

Had the tone not turned so thoughtful, Lothíriel might have pried. But she could not—she  _dared_  not. Perhaps somewhere between Éomer's good-natured conversation and his lack of regal manners, she had forgotten he was king. No! She had not forgotten. His kingship was the reason she was riding a blasted monster of a horse at dawn, anyway.

"Your thoughts are too serious for such a beautiful morning," she said gently, to draw him from his clearly weighty musings. He glanced at her, eyes crinkling as he smiled. A pleasant shiver crept up her spine, and she could not help returning his smile.

"And too serious for the company of a beautiful woman! I am chastened," Éomer said, and he inclined his head.

Lothíriel could not hold his gaze any longer; it was entirely  _too_ warm. Self-consciously she touched the collar of her outfit as she looked away. She wondered if his men were near enough to hear them, and turned slightly in her saddle. They were some distance back, and she let out a breath of relief. Listening ears were the last thing she needed.

"Well!" she said lightly, settling herself forward once more. "It is a quiet morning." And indeed it was—they had passed few in the streets, and the houses around them were silent. Smoke rose from chimneys, but little else indicated life in Minas Tirith.

"It is the best time to ride," Éomer said with a roguish smile. "Fewer people to accidentally trample, as I have learned from experience."

"You would never, I am sure," Lothíriel declared. "I cannot see you so careless!"

"A learned habit, to be sure. I have been party to a broken foot or two in my time! Though admittedly, in those days I was no more than a clumsy youth."

She fluttered her eyelashes with a shy smile. "Clumsy? Surely not! I thought you a marvelous dancer last night."

"Ten years ago, I would have trod on your toes! I thank Béma that my youth ended long ago," Éomer laughed. "Though to be fair, I would not have been able to speak a word in your presence, either. I am doubly thankful."

Lothíriel lifted her brows, awaiting further explanation.

"You cannot lay too a harsh judgement on me," he said, his eyes mischievous. "Most young men cannot keep their heads around a woman."

"I am sure I have not induced such nervousness in any man," Lothíriel replied, and to her disgruntlement, a hard note had entered her voice—it was too near such a sore subject. Her smile had faded, which Éomer noticed.

"'Tis not true," he said after a moment.

Lothíriel blinked in astonishment, and accused, "You are teasing!"

Éomer's eyes warmed as they met hers. "Not a whit. I am sure I know at least a half-dozen men in my own company who have admired you from afar, but not dared to speak. Perhaps I should count myself one of them; for I did not ask you to dance last night until  _you_  approached  _me_."

She did not know what to say—she could no longer discern between his teasing and any degree of seriousness. So she tilted her chin upwards and declared, "Why, I do not think I have heard a single truth since we left the stables! My lord, you are incorrigible!"

A smile formed on Éomer's face, which seemed to hold a secret. "I have never lied in my life," he vowed solemnly. Lothíriel scoffed inwardly at this, but he continued, "And more than that, I have the skill to recognize the lies of others."

A sudden tremor of self-consciousness gave her pause. She was unsure of what to believe—he could not know her dishonorable intentions! But looking at him now, there was no deceit in his features. Éomer was honest; perhaps too honest. She shivered to think of what that meant for her, and adjusted herself awkwardly in the uncomfortable saddle.

"Come now," he chided. "Let us leave behind these serious matters. We shall endeavor to only speak to truth to each other from now on, and only of superficial matters. What say you?"

"Yes," Lothíriel agreed quickly. "Perhaps you can tell me your impression of Minas Tirith thus far." This topic she knew enough about to hold her own, and she smiled with a surge of confidence.

"It is pretty enough," Éomer said, but his tone was indifferent. "Nothing quite compares to one's homeland, and so I admit bias. I am sure I would feel trapped, should I live amongst such stone for the remainder of my days." Lothíriel, gazing closely at him, saw a wistful look in his eyes as they travelled under a white stone walkway above them. He cast her a look, turning teasing again. "I daresay I sound rather ridiculous," he said.

"Not at all! I understand your sentiments well—perhaps  _too_ well." She bit her lip, unsure of how much to reveal of herself. Éomer had been frank with her, and she decided she must be the same. "I much prefer the sea," Lothíriel sighed. "When I look at it, or when I am sailing—I feel as if the world is limitless, and so am I. There is no better sense of freedom anywhere."

"I am sure Rohan could be a worthy competitor," Éomer smiled at her. "Though ours is more a sea of grass."

"Oh! My nose itches just to consider it."

Lothíriel's quip, intended to prevent the conversation from turning  _too_  honest, did its work—the king let out a bellow of laughter. "Then we are each where we belong—for I feel ill simply thinking of the sea! We sailed from Cair Andros to Osgiliath, and it was a rather unpleasant experience."

"Ah," she said, nodding sagely. "That does not bode well for you. For the river Anduin is far gentler than the Bay of Belfalas."

Éomer visibly cringed. "Then I am afraid I shall avoid Dol Amroth by any means!"

"That is not reason enough! We have become experts in treating seasickness. I wonder that my brothers, whom I know were in your same company on the Anduin, did not suggest any remedies!"

"Then now I have two complaints for your brothers!" Éomer declared. "That they allowed me to suffer illness as they watched laughing, and that they did not introduce me to their beautiful sister sooner!"

This caused Lothíriel to flush pink entirely against her will. She wondered if she had met Éomer before her decision what she would have thought of him. Probably very little at all—she had always preferred the dark-haired men of her own nation. Even now she only thought of him because he was king. Was it not so? She cast him a surreptitious glance; he was gazing overhead as they passed beneath the broken gate to the city. Lothíriel was not attracted to fair-haired and bearded men. Éomer must have sensed her scrutiny, for he grinned at her, and again she felt that strange heat. At least, she had not  _thought_  she was attracted to fair-haired, bearded men.

"I am beginning to think you are a truly irrepressible flirt," she said stoutly, and he laughed. It was fortunate that his attention was diverted, for her eyes began to water. Though most of the vegetation beyond the city had been trampled and burned, there remained just enough in the air to bother her, and she wiped her eyes with a handkerchief while Éomer was looking away. Lothíriel was ready with a smile when he turned back to her with a glint in his eyes, picking up on her earlier comment.

"Is it so obvious?"

Lothíriel giggled. "Do you doubt your methods?"

"Ha! Only with the women of Minas Tirith."

"They do not appreciate teasing such as yours, I expect."

Éomer gave her a sidelong glance. "You know them well."

"I  _am_  one of them," she reminded him. "I can only retain my wits around your ridiculous manners because I have three elder brothers who have accustomed me to teasing."

"And that is another reason that I admire you."

Lothíriel gloated inwardly—already Éomer was differentiating between her and other women. It gave her enormous hope; perhaps the ride would be worth it. Though she was by no means confident enough to say her hold on him was enough to keep his attention. But it was coming together nicely. Then the stray grass in the air got the better of her, and she sneezed.

"Perhaps we ought to turn back," Éomer said, his eyes filling with concern.

"Ah—alright." Her legs had numbed some time ago, but as they turned their horses and he could not see her face, Lothíriel winced at the pain that was sure to plague her for the next days.  _Queen, queen, queen_ … she reminded herself. They passed Éomer's men, who now looked at her with more interest than earlier. She lifted her chin, gazing around as regally as she could with snot beginning to drip from her nose.

One of the men addressed Éomer in their tongue, and he responded in kind. Lothíriel flushed pink, she knew enough Rohirric to know that the man had mentioned  _the lady_. She did not understand what Éomer said in return.

The men were nearer now, and as if some tension had broken they began to joke and talk amongst themselves. It was no longer an option to hold a private conversation with Éomer, but Lothíriel had no qualms. She was not sure how much longer she might have spoken to him without losing her wits completely. He  _did_  seem to have that effect…

But the remainder of the ride back to the stables was a bit colorless, all in all.


	3. Chapter 3

Éomer lifted arms to her, and smiling benignly, Lothíriel swung one aching leg over the saddle and slid down towards him. For a breathless moment her only support was his large, warm hands on her waist. When she was set on the ground a half-second later, she was suitably dizzy.

"Thank you," she told him, lashes fluttering, A stablehand had come, and now led both of their horses away. Éomer, however, stayed put, and his eyes were warm.

"I realize it is only a short distance to your father's house," he said. "But may I escort you anyway?"

"You may." Lothíriel tried to be coy so as to retain his interest, but a welling of deep gratitude filled her heart. She was certain that without someone's arm, she would not be able to move an inch on her throbbing legs. But she managed to keep her hold on him gentle, and together they meandered from the courtyard.

It was now mid-morning, but the sounds of the markets they had passed on their return journey through the city was distant from Sixth Circle. It had grown warm, and with the thick velvet of her riding habit she felt sweat break out on her neck. Surely her hair, so carefully plaited that morning, was limp and her nose red from snivelling. Disappointment was making her eyes sting—was she succeeding? Was Éomer interested in her?

"Thank you for your pleasant company this morning," he said to her, and she glanced up to see him grinning. She returned it, a bit wobbily. "Remember, if Amrothos asks—it was my doing."

Lothíriel laughed weakly. "You are too kind. If there is—" She broke off, utterly distracted. "Oooh!" Forgetting her aching legs, she released Éomer's arm and rushed to a doorframe, crouching low. A small, tabby kitten was huddled, shrinking away from with its poor little tail trembling as it regarded her with wide, unblinking eyes.

"What is it?" she heard Éomer ask curiously behind her.

"Oh—the poor baby has lost its mama," she cooed, and reached out to pick up the fragile, shaking body. It licked her once, and then settled into her breast as she held it close.

"Oh, Béma!" Éomer's laugh was half a groan. "Is your father going to forgive me for allowing you to bring home a stray cat?"

"He forgives  _me_ ," Lothíriel said crossly, glaring at him. "Anyway, I cannot leave it here to be trampled, now can I?"

"Evidently not."

"No, sir!" She held the kitten to her face, and her nose tickled as it was licked by a tiny pink tongue. "You are a handsome one! How long have you been lost? May I interest you in a bowl of fresh milk?"

" _Yes_ ," she thought she heard mumbled from Éomer. Lothíriel gazed at him in confusion, and he snorted. "Let us go on," he said. "May I hold him for you? So that you can take my arm?"

Her thoughts had disoriented, for she stared at him until he explained patiently, "You have been positively hobbling about, Lothíriel. Let me help you. I will hold the cat."

"Oh—alright." Lothíriel placed the kitten in Éomer's hands, which hands suddenly seemed much larger with the tiny creature in them. He took a moment to pet the top of its delicate head, and then opened his vest and tucked the kitten inside. "Oh! Will he suffocate?" she said, forgetting herself. Anxiously she reached out to better peer into his vest. But the kitten was already purring happily, poking his head out of the vest curiously.

"He will be quite well," Éomer said, and there was definite amusement in his voice. She stroked its soft nose, murmuring. Then her hand was picked up, and startled, saw Éomer's grinning face as he wove it through his arm. "There will be plenty of time to coo over the poor cat later," he said pointedly. "I really would prefer to return you home before Amrothos realizes you absconded with his horse."

"Oh. R—right." She had momentarily forgotten the ride, and of the reason. How could she have been so silly as to gush over a kitten in front of Éomer? He would have no respect at all for her, if she continued to forget how she ought to act!

"Ow," Éomer muttered, and with his opposite hand he pulled the bundle of kitten away. "I do not think he likes me," he said ruefully.

"Nonsense! How could he not?"

Éomer's brows lifted, and Lothíriel flushed. Has she spoken too freely, becoming accustomed to the king and hsi geniality? She turned her head away to her father's gates ahead. A guard unlatched the iron lock, and they were let through. The courtyard there was a bustle of activity; it was laundry day, and she realized too late that her underthings were hanging on a line, in full view of anyone that happened by—and Éomer.

Why was there not another courtyard for drying clothing? Why, oh,  _why_?

"I will take my leave," Éomer said, and if he was withholding laughter, Lothíriel chose to ignore it. She gave him a smile as he bent down to kiss her hand, his lips lingering. Very good.

"Thank you for your escort."

"It was my pleasure. Give your father my regards. And—here is your cat. I shall have to pass by the Healing Houses to have my wounds cleaned and stitched, I tell you that!"

Lothíriel refrained from sticking her tongue at him, and accepted the warm bundle in her hands. "Goodbye, Éomer," she said tersely.

He gave a bark of laughter. "Yes, goodbye, Lothíriel. Until next we meet." And he retreated back through the gate, and was gone.

"I am beginning to wonder if he likes me at all," she murmured to the kitten, stroking its head absently. "He laughs at my expense far too often."

* * *

Lothíriel did not bother even attempting to rise when the maid announced the arrival of two ladies her own age. Her legs were throbbing something awful, despite the warm bath she had insisted on taking as soon as she arrived home, and the medicinal salve which she had applied liberally afterwards. She remained lounging in the window seat where she was with the kitten, who slept on her lap with its belly full of milk, and greeted her sometimes-friends with a smile.

"Good afternoon!" She forced a cheery smile, noting the smirk on Numiel's face and the sour expression on Wilrith's. Lothíriel was not feeling quite up to any sort of gossip, but being unable to move, she hardly had a choice. Best to affect disinterest, and they would leave as soon as possible to find someone else to tell. They sat; one slim, one plump.

"We were not sure if you would be here," Numriel said, clasping her fingers elegantly on her lap. " _Someone_  saw you skipping off to the stables this morning."

"So I did," Lothíriel said indifferently. "It is not a secret."

"Were you after King Éomer?"

She replied with a skeptical look. "Does one need an ulterior motive to visit the stables, Numriel?"

A sneer on the other girl's face. " _You_  do."

"It is hardly fair!" Wilrith said loudly, speaking for the first time. "If you have extra time to have a go at the king, then you ought to invite  _us_! Equal footing, and all."

"We could stand side-by-side in front of the poor man, and still we would not be equals," Lothíriel said, lifting her chin in the air with a level look. " _My_  father is well-acquainted with the king."

Wilrith flushed a ruddy red, an unflattering color on her pale face. Lothíriel might have felt sorry for the girl, were she less assuming.

"So you admit that you saw the king?" Numriel asked, with glee lighting her pale eyes.

"I have admitted nothing—but I will now: yes, I saw the king. And before you press the point; yes, we spoke, and yes, he invited me on a ride, and yes, I accepted. No, we do not have an informal understanding, and no, I will not help you to meet him privately yourself."

This barrage of information shocked both girls; their mouths fell open in perfect tandem. "A ride with the king…" Wilrith breathed. "How marvelous!"

"If you like that sort of thing," Lothíriel allowed, and then started as Numriel burst into into unladylike laughter.

"This is even better than I hoped!" the girl crowed. "I never thought  _you_  would be desperate enough to go to such measures for a man to look your way."

Lothíriel's answering smile was stiff, and to calm herself she began to stroke the kitten's ears.

"But you will fail, I fear," Numriel continued when she had finished laughing. "I saw the king before I came to see you, and he said nothing of  _you_. Nor did his sister, to whom I also spoke. She did mention, however," a sly smile spread across her face, and all of her normal prettiness was quite gone. "That King Éomer is destined to marry from among his own people. You haven't a chance, Lothíriel."

"That is  _Lady_  Lothíriel to you," she snapped before she could help herself. She could not allow Numriel to divine her angry disappointment, nor the sinking feeling in her stomach. "Have you nothing better to do than to spread such expectations? If you continue this course, you will bring embarrassment upon both my father  _and_  Éomer."

This speech sunk Wilrith into her chair, but Numriel was undaunted. "Just Éomer?" she asked. "Such a disregard for propriety!"

Lothíriel just managed not to roll her eyes.  _Such irony_ , was closer to her thoughts. "Éomer and my father are quite good friends, as I have already pointed out," she said sweetly. "And Éomer respects a woman with decency."

Two sets of eyes glared balefully at her.

"Anyway, if you haven't any other gossip more interesting than my own activities, I have a headache. But do come again, sometime."

 _Never_ , Lothíriel thought sourly to herself. Numriel and Wilrith stood, Numriel cool in the face of this abrupt dismissal and Wilrith startled. They each curtseyed, Lothíriel allowed a nod, and they turned for the door.

Once the sweeping skirts were gone, she reclined in the window seat and pressed a pillow to her face to keep her groan of frustration quiet so as not to wake her sleeping kitten. Lothíriel had never been so close to losing her temper with the ladies her age, despite the various rivalries and annoyances that seemed to always occur between young women. Why in Arda had Numriel's words needled her so? The girl had not been  _wrong_  in her assumptions, after all. Was it merely Lothíriel's indignation at having been discovered? What if Numriel managed to tell Éomer of this gossip?

Oh, what guilt stole over her then! Lothíriel shuddered to even think of Éomer, good as he was, being affected by her own spite. But oh! Was that not at least part of her plan? To marry Éomer and be crowned queen, and to regain status over the other ladies. Of course that would involve envy in her direction, and it would naturally touch him as well. Could she, in good conscience, inflict that upon him?  _He would love me_ , a part of her thought, but the pragmatic part immediately dismissed it. Éomer would never love her; not if he knew her true self. The best she could hope for was for him to decide that a marriage alliance with Gondor's highest-born noblewoman would be better for Rohan than marrying one of his own people.

A wily thought came to her then, and she could not help smiling despite herself—who would best defend the idea of such an alliance? Whose advice would Éomer most likely heed when it came to political matters? Why, she had given Numriel the answer already!

Perhaps she had a chance, after all.

* * *

"Is it true that Faramir is going to wed Lady Éowyn, Father?"

Imrahil gave his daughter a sharp look over his goblet, and after a moment he leaned forward to set it on the table between them. Lothíriel kept her expression one of mild interest despite the agony in her legs. Perhaps she  _should_  have waited until the following day to speak to her father, but the issue could not wait. Not if it meant the difference between a sleepless night and a peaceful one.

"He has informed me as such," her father said. "They have yet to be formally betrothed."

"But they will?"

"Yes."

Lothíriel allow a smile to grow broadly across her face. "I think it is wonderful, Father! It is clear to me how much they care for each other."

Imrahil inclined his head, returning the smile indulgently. "Even so, daughter."

The sun had long since set behind the city, and the prince's study was dim apart from the few candles which had been lit. Lothíriel was fortunate that this night had been the first since the arrival of the delegation from Rohan where there were no festivities planned—otherwise she might not have been able to meet with her father privately. Her brothers had taken advantage of the lull and left for a tavern with a number of friends some time ago. She wondered briefly if Éomer was one of those friends, then pushed the thought away.

"And I do not mean simply because of their devotion," Lothíriel continued, her eyes brightening. "Why, nothing could be wiser for the relations between Rohan and Gondor! After so many years of suspicion and doubt, I hope that many such marriages will occur. May our alliance only strengthen and never falter."

"Even so," Imrahil repeated, though his brows had drawn together shrewdly. She allowed him to stare at her, trying to weigh her meaning. But they had always understood each other very well—Lothíriel had high hopes for her father ascertaining her meaning quickly. Ah—there it was. Imrahil leaned forward, resting his elbows on his desk as he favored her with a smile. "Well?" he asked with a chuckle. "Is my scheming daughter going to tell me what she has planned already?"

"Planned! Scheming?" Lothíriel gasped, putting her hand to her heart in mock horror. "Why, Father—"

"Oh, do cease the dramatics! I am sure you came tonight with your mind already made. Remember, you inherited  _my_  wits, not the other way around."

"Very well." She also leaned forward, holding her father's amused gaze. "I am ready to marry, Father."

"Go on."

"And—I would rather not marry  _down_  in the world, if you understand my meaning."

Imrahil's brows lifted ever so slightly. "Lothíriel…" he said, and there was a warning note in his voice. "If you set your sights too high, you will break your neck. There are many a good men who are not lords or princes."

"I know that," she said absently. "But I would prefer the stability of nobility. That is no wrong thing."

"Perhaps not. Now tell me who you have chosen to be your husband."

Lothíriel flushed, holding back a smile. How could he not have guessed? She allowed a moment of silence as he thought, and sure enough it came—Imrahil laughed aloud, and sunk back in his chair.

"Marry  _down_  in the world; I suppose that was your clue! Well, my dear, I can think of only four men who might be above you. Elessar, who is wed, Faramir, who is both your cousin and soon to be wed, Éomer of Rohan, and Bard of Dale. I am thinking you do not wish to live  _so_  far from home?"

"No, father," she admitted shyly.

Still chuckling to himself, Imrahil studied her from across the desk. "When did you decide this, Lothíriel? I should very much like to know."

"Well—we have met once or twice," she said thoughtfully. "He is a good man; we can speak to each other easily. I have no reason to fear being married to him. And—and I  _do_  like them. But Father—" Lothíriel added quickly, not quite considering her next words before they fell from her mouth, "I would not wish him to marry  _me_  if he does not feel the same."

What? Where in Arda had that thought come from? She flushed, but her father did not notice.

Imrahil was nodding slowly. "I cannot help but think of the political implications," he murmured, as if to himself. "You are right—continued alliance will bind our nations together more tightly than they have ever been. Éomer perhaps is too trusting to last in the courts here, but that will not matter—you are fully capable to guide him, and I am sure as time goes on and things settle, both he and you will spend more time in Edoras. Yes, yes. Hmm. And I will be grandfather to a king!—and you the mother. I can scarce consider it fully!"

Lothíriel blinked, her mind going blank at his final words.

"I will speak to Éomer," Imrahil said, breaking off his spiel with a kind smile. "Do not fret, daughter. I will secure your future."


	4. Chapter 4

It was the final feast before the delegation to Rohan would depart, and Lothíriel was sure that everyone was staring at her. Though  _why_  they were doing so was less certain. The concentration of her day had been Éomer and whether he would agree to marry her, but surely she was alone in that. How would the court at Minas Tirith have discovered it? Her father was too subtle to allow gossip to get around, and surely Éomer would not have said anything. Not since that afternoon, when Imrahil had made a meeting with the King of Rohan.

She had yet to know the outcome of that conversation.

Her palms were sweating as she nonchalantly waved her fan at her face, ignoring the whispers around her. Perhaps it was Numriel's doing—perhaps the girl had sent a rumor around about Lothíriel and the king of Rohan. A rumor that she was setting her sights too high was hardly to her credit, but if there was coinciding gossip that Éomer was showing unusual interest in her… Well, she may as well take advantage. So she returned the interested stares coolly, nodding her head politely as she wandered through the hall with no destination in mind.

There was no need for the nerves fluttering in her belly—Éomer would agree, or he would not. And she suspected that he would hear the wisdom of Imrahil's counsels. He  _would_  agree, and Lothíriel would be a queen.

She walked past Numriel and her mother, giving Lady Nimirith a cordial nod and Numriel a frosty one. The girl's face was sour, and Lothíriel smugly considered how Numriel would respond when Lothíriel married the king! It gave her private amusement, and she was still smiling when she saw that her cousin was approaching her with Lady Éowyn on his arm. Lothíriel's smile turned stiff.

"Good evening, cousin!" Faramir said, and graciously he bent over her proffered hand. "You are looking fine."

Lothíriel accepted the compliment with a murmur, glancing almost against her will at the bright face of the woman beside him. She had met Éowyn once before, but only in passing. Now Éowyn was giving her a most strange look—hesitant and shrewd, but oddly, not the least bit of malice in it.

"Will you take a turn of the garden with me?" Éowyn asked her. It was plainly worded, but gave no indication as to why she was asking such a thing. Lothíriel blinked.

"Oh—certainly, if you wish it."

"Faramir, you ought to stay," the woman then said, unlacing her arm from his. "You have been remiss to your duties as steward of late." There was shared, secret smile between the two of them, and the sight made Lothíriel's heart ache strangely. "Come," Éowyn turned to her, still smiling as she took Lothíriel's arm instead. "Let us go."

Half-dragged but intent on appearing as if this was part of her plan, Lothíriel trotted along with the taller woman's long strides. The first dance of the evening was just lining up, and she wondered at Éowyn willingly losing a chance to dance with the man she loved.

Lothíriel did not understand her at all.

The gardens were dark already, apart from a few torches left at the doors which led from the great hall. Two pages stood at the entrance, but from what Lothíriel could see the area was otherwise deserted. Too early in the evening for couples to escape, she surmised. Together they descended the stone steps, their slippers and swishing skirts making very little noise. The crickets grew louder, and the scent of flowers in the warm night nearly made Lothíriel choke. Her eyes began to water mercilessly.

"Thank you for agreeing to come with me," Éowyn said as they began to meander along the path. "I have been told that I sometimes frighten others away—and I did not wish to frighten you."

"Oh—not at all," Lothíriel managed, surreptitiously wiping a tear from her eyes. "I have desired to know better the woman my cousin loves."

"Hmm." There was moment of silence, and then Éowyn said, "My motives are far less noble. I wish to speak to you of my brother."

Lothíriel stared at the other woman in surprise, and then without warning gave a monstrous sneeze. She covered it just in time, and they paused in their walking as she searched for a handkerchief from her reticule.

"Are you well?" Éowyn asked dubiously.

"Oh—yes, yes I am," Lothíriel replied in a croak. "It is only that—vegetation makes me a bit ill."

"I see." There was that calculating look in Éowyn's eyes again as Lothíriel wiped her nose and returned the handkerchief, and they resumed their course. "Rohan is nearly all grassland," the lady said. "Even Edoras has weeds and gardens all over."

Lothíriel did not know what to say—was Éowyn making only a casual remark, or was it a warning? More silence, and then they turned the corner of a hedge.

"I wanted Éomer to marry one of our people," Éowyn said without preamble, and her voice was turned brisk. She was staring ahead as they walked, and Lothíriel was surprised to see a tinge of pink in the lady's fair cheeks as she continued, "I told him as much, too. He does not appreciate such interference." Her expression turned sheepish, and Lothíriel recalled Éomer mentioned something that his sister had said to him which troubled his thoughts… He had not said precisely what. Was this it?

"I understand," Lothíriel said to fill the pause.

"But he is right to disregard me. It would be terribly hypocritical for me to hold Éomer to such a standard." Éowyn glanced at Lothíriel, and there was a twitching about her lips. "To be quite plain, I would much prefer he be happy than attend to my strictures."

Lothíriel barely kept her mouth from falling open in astonishment. Was Éowyn not only admitting her own wrong, but expressing that she  _preferred_ to be wrong for the sake of her brother's happiness? Never before had Lothíriel known any woman to confess such weakness! Éowyn had called  _her_  noble, but there was no doubt it was the other way around. Lothíriel sought to enter their family through marriage to be queen, and Éowyn wanted her brother to be happy rather than heed her own advice. For the first time, a niggling of guilt assailed her.

Éowyn was watching her carefully, and she smiled kindly. "Will  _you_  be happy with him?" she asked.

Such candid speaking! And they were barely acquainted. Lothíriel hastened to find an appropriate answer. "I have no reason to think I shall not. Providing he is not against the idea, that is."

Now the lady's smile turned mischievous, and the similarities in looks between her and her brother became quite apparent. "I will be pleased to call you sister," Éowyn said, and surprising Lothíriel all the more, bent over to brush her lips against Lothíriel's cheek. "We shall be doubly related, you and I," she added.

"Indeed." But Lothíriel could not help but think,  _I am deceiving the slayer of the Witchking. If she were to discover my motives…_

"There you are!"

She nearly jumped out of her skin at the now-familiar voice, and Éowyn laughed beside her as a large form approached them from the darkness. It was Éomer, of course, and Lothíriel swallowed convulsively at the sight of him. How could he be both so welcome and so terrifying, all at once? His eyes were fastened on her intently, and with difficulty she cleared her throat.

"I ought to have known you would find us!" Éowyn said. "I am sure Faramir will be looking for me. Éomer, will you see Lothíriel back?"

"Certainly."

Éowyn squeezed Lothíriel's arm, and with a final, conspiratorial smile, turned to retreat back towards Merethrond. The garden quieted with her absence, and Éomer and Lothíriel were left alone. She covertly admired his clothing that night; he wore a forest-green tunic which seemed to make his eyes a matching green in the dim light. But the warmth there was the same, and he grinned suddenly.

"How is your cat?"

"He is very well, thank you." There was mirth in his eyes, which she did not quite appreciate. Another silence, and he spoke again.

"Well? Has Éowyn forgiven you?"

"Er—forgiven me what, exactly?"

"For ruining her plans that I marry a woman of the Mark!"

Lothíriel bit her lip—she was not feeling quite up to carrying on this particular conversation, not when she felt so ignorant about the subject. Had Éomer agreed to marry her, then? Would Éowyn have sought her out otherwise? Certainly the lady had spoken confidently of it! Or was it yet to be decided, and they were merely considering the notion? Desperately, wanting so badly to feel sure of herself again, Lothíriel burst out,

"Éomer, I know my father spoke to you but  _I_  have yet to hear  _anything_  of your conversation!" She was trembling, and suddenly angry at herself she clenched her hands together tightly. Her nose was itching again, but she would  _not_  sneeze again. Not now.

His grin faded into something serious, and Lothíriel shivered as his hand rose to brush away a stray curl from her face. "I am sorry," Éomer said quickly. "I did not know—I should not have teased."

"I can handle your teasing, Éomer—but not when I feel so deucedly stupid."

"What is—" He paused, blinking. "Have you been  _crying_?"

"Oh—no, it is only the flowers." Lothíriel cursed inwardly her red eyes—they were itching, and he had thought she had been weeping! She must be a sight. How could he be looking at her so tenderly?

_Tenderly_?

"Do you want to marry me, Lothíriel?" Éomer's voice was soft now, almost coercing. "I told your father I could accept nothing until I spoke of this to you myself. I want to know what  _you_  want."

"I—I—what  _I_  want?" she stammered.

"It will not be easy. Rohan is...well, there will be a great deal of hard work before we may prosper. And I am afraid I shan't be easy to be wed to, either." His lips lifted in a rueful smile. "We have already established I am a terrible tease, after all."

There were tears flooding her eyes again, and Lothíriel was not entirely sure they were only from the flowers and bushes around them. How could Éomer be so  _good_? He was caring more for her in this moment than she ever had for him. Her stomach was in knots, and she busied herself with her handkerchief, wiping her eyes as Éomer watched her with concern.

"There is rather a lot of grass in Rohan," he told her.

"I know," she said nasally. "But—that is hardly the point."

"I should hope not."

He was waiting for her to speak. Lothíriel swallowed past the scratchiness in her throat, lifting her eyes to meet his. "Éomer, I—I would not have suggested an alliance to my father if I could not accept it."

Éomer looked stunned. He stared, apparently devoid of a response. Had she said the wrong thing? It had not been a lie! Lothíriel attempted a tremulous smile, the stinging in her eyes worsening.

"Well!" he said at last. "I did not know it was your idea." Then he found a grin again, and laughed aloud. "You liked me all along, did you not?"

"Oh, um—"

"No, do not say!" Éomer said, and held a finger to her lips. His eyes were twinkling. "I do not want to know! Let us leave a shred of mystery."

"V—very well." Lothíriel felt the itching in her nose building once more, and turned away just in time to sneeze into her handkerchief. Éomer was tut-tutting as she wiped her nose, glaring at him for his amusement.

"I had best take you inside," he said. "The air will be cleaner."

"Yes, if you would." She folded the wet handkerchief, sniveling as she tucked it away in her reticule. To her surprise Éomer picked up her hand, and his eyes rather heated, brought it to his lips.

"Will you mind very much if we cannot marry straight away? Your father said that a betrothal may not be an option until Éowyn's wedding, and that has not been announced yet either. Can you wait a year or more?"

Lothíriel nodded, biting her lip. "It will leave me plenty of time to prepare."

"Prepare?" he arched a brow, "Whatever does that mean, miss?"

She smiled despite her nerves. "I shall have to grow a terribly thick skin, if I am to be teased every day for the rest of my life."

He laughed, and tucked her arm through his. "You are well on your way, my dear. After all, I shall to accustom myself to having your cat underfoot. Let us go."

Her legs were shaking as they slowly traversed the garden path towards the great hall, from where light was spilling into the dark garden. Lothíriel felt an uneasiness as she realized she would be entering in full view of everyone on Éomer's arm. There would be many conclusions drawn. But rather than pride, she could not help uncertainty rolling in her stomach. Whatever was wrong with her? She would be a queen! How could she question it now?

Éomer patted her hand, and she glanced up to see a lovely, beaming smile just for her. She recalled the secret smile Faramir and Éowyn had shared. Was this some sort of special thing between attached couples? Lothíriel returned it as best she could, and to her surprise, a pleasant heat overcame her nerves.

What in Arda was wrong with her?


	5. Chapter 5

_Autumn, 3020 T.A., Minas Tirith_

Lothíriel peeked through the shutters on her window to the streets below. Just audible was the sound of a hundred or so horses clamping down the street, making for the gate. She was determined not to be seen, but to see. There were lines and lines of soldiers and guards, all wearing the blazen armor of the Rohirrim. There were several of the fair-haired women whom she resented so much, and ordinary men, just as fair and laughing merrily in the early hour.

She had not slept very well the night before; Éomer's smiling face had lingered in her mind eye far longer than was comfortable. Around dawn, she had given up entirely, and soon after the sound of the Rohan delegation departing the city had begun. It was an interesting sight, in the least, but in her heart of hearts she wanted to Éomer one last time. She must have missed him; he would have been at the head of the party…

Lothíriel did not understand this effect he was having upon her. It did not bear closer scrutiny.

There was a mewling from her knees, and she turned away from the sight in the streets to smile at her kitten, who pounced into her lap with an inquiring meow.

"Would you like to see?" she asked him softly, and lifted him in her hands so that he could peer out the shutters. "Your friend has left. But do not fret—I think he shall be back." Lothíriel tried to ignore her physical response to this statement; her heart fluttered and she felt a flush coming on. The kitten grew bored of watching and he leapt back into her lap, struggling to keep his footing in the folds of her nightshift.

"He is very nice, isn't he?" she mused, absently stroking the cat's soft ears as she returned her gaze to the procession. He meowed in agreement, settling down on the top of her legs. "You are probably very unfamiliar with the world, kitty, but I think it is quite strange for a king to be so...so  _genial_. He is quite odd in that way, but I do not think him a worse king for it...perhaps even a better one. Which just shows how little I know of being king at all!" Lothíriel finished with a hollow laugh. The cat perked up his ears at the sound, blinking slowly.

"You are very lucky," she told him, scratching his chin. "You haven't any cares in the world." Her heart weighed down at this—speaking of Éomer and kingship and how ignorant she felt did not calm her mind.

"It is not that I dread marrying," Lothíriel added after a moment, resting her chin in her hands as she watched a banner of Rohan flutter by, carried by a man wearing armor. "And I do not fear Éomer. At least—not in that sense. I can only fear his discovering my deception. And his sister! Why, Éowyn would have my head!"

The kitten had rested his head on his paws, and at his lack of response Lothíriel glanced down, smiling to see his eyes closed. There was a slight purr as he breathed, and with her thumb she petted down the soft fur along his back.

"I should not be a queen of anywhere," she said softly. "Not with such lies to my name."

Voicing her fear, even to an indifferent audience, cleared Lothíriel's mind somewhat. Invigorated by her unusual honesty to herself, she gently picked up the cat and laid him on her pillow. He did not wake, and she swung her legs over the side of her bed.

It was early for her, and so the maid had yet to bring fresh water for washing and Lothíriel's usual breakfast tray. But she was not hungry, and the previous night's water was clean enough. In silence she dressed, her mind still on Éomer with many conflicting emotions in her breast.

She did not know what to do.

Restlessly she left her chambers, the soft pads of her slippers making very little noise as she wandered the empty corridors of her father's house. It was no surprise that her brothers were nowhere in sight; her rising early was that unusual. But oddly enough, the hushed silence of the house did disturb her—there was peace in being alone.

Lothíriel could hear noises from the directions of the kitchens, and she turned the opposite direction. Why bother the quiet now? But at the end of the corridor, she was met with only a door and no way to continue. She hesitated only a moment, and then lifted the heavy iron latch and pushed through the door.

The smell of old parchment, mildewing books and fresh ink and glue met her nose—as did the dust. She sneezed once, echoing loudly through the shelves of books. Lothíriel blinked the tears from her eyes. The initial reaction was bad, but as she stepped slowly into the library her vision cleared, and she could breathe again. There! That was not so bad. Likely living in Rohan would require continued accustomization to grasses and such, so she may as well start with dust.

Living in Rohan! Why, she could study Rohirric!

Wherever that thought had come from, she did not know, nor did she care—the thought of being able to do something,  _anything_ , to improve what was appearing to be a gloomy future was a restorative one. As guilty as she may be for decieving Éomer, perhaps her efforts towards improvement would be a mark in her favor.

Lothíriel wandered down the shelves to where the language books were kept. As far as she knew, most of the schoolbooks she and her brothers had learned from were still in Dol Amroth, but her father kept his library in Minas Tirith stocked well.

Aha! Fortune smiled upon her.

She filled her arms with several books,  _A Brief History of the Language of the Eorlingas_ ,  _Language through Song_ ,  _Speaking to Northmen,_  and  _Common and Uncommon Vocabularies of the Rohirrim._  Lothíriel already knew full well that Rohirric did not have a written language, and she understood how difficult it would be to learn an unwritten language. But with these works of enterprising Gondorians, long dead, she just might have an advantage.

Feeling enormously pleased with herself and not a little smug, she departed the library only slightly off-balance from the weight of the books. Through the open corridors the sun was beginning to brighten to full morning, and she began to retrace her steps back to her chambers.

There was an impediment as she turned towards the family quarters—Amrothos, messy-haired and half-dressed, and looking as though he had been aroused from peaceful sleep entirely against his will. Lothíriel kept her laughter to herself, for as soon as he saw her, he glowered and stomped forward.

"This is yours, isn't it?" he said, and reached up to his shoulders to pull down—her cat! Evidently the kitten had been clinging to his shoulders, and there was a definite grimace in his face. The cat's claws pulled on his undershirt as Amrothos pried him loose.

"Why, yes!" Lothíriel said with a smile. "However did you find him?"

" _He_  found  _me_ ," Amrothos grumbled. "Crawled onto my face while I was sleeping, yowling as if the sky was falling. I don't much care to be woken that way, Lothíriel!"

"I didn't advise him to," she pointed out. "Put him down then, and he will follow me."

He did as she bade, though he gave one last gripe under his breath as he bent down. "Mangy cat," he said. "What have you named this beast?"

"I haven't yet. I only found him two days ago."

Amrothos blinked, and after a heavy pause a smile began to grow on his face. She sensed him preparing to tease her. "Oh? Two days ago?"

"Yes," Lothíriel said primly.

"What a coincidence! It was exactly two days ago that I intended to take a ride in the afternoon, only to find that Siladur was being rubbed down from earlier exercise. Is that not most odd? And it was that same day, if I recall correctly, that I saw a maid taking a salve of black cohosh to your chambers. I do not know what use  _you_ may have had for it, but  _I_  generally only use it when I am sore from riding."

Did he know that she had borrowed his stallion, then? He must, to be torturing her so! But Éomer had said nothing, she was sure—so Lothíriel merely tilted her chin upwards and said indifferently,

"Very odd. Well—I ought to be going."

"What's this?" Before she could brush past him, Amrothos picked up the top book and read aloud, " _A Brief History of the Language of the Eorlingas_? You must be awfully bored, Lothíriel, if you are reading this! Can I take you anywhere today? The market?" His eyes were glittering as he replaced the book. "On a ride, perhaps?" he asked slyly.

"Thank you for the offer, but no," Lothíriel said, keeping her blush at bay. "As you can see, I will be quite busy being  _bored_." And with a tight smile she walked past him, careful not to step on the cat trotting along beside her.

"Are you truly going to marry him, then?" Amrothos called down the corridor. With a shiver up her spine, Lothíriel felt that even the walls of the house were leaning close to hear her answer. Were there servants within hearing distance? She dared not risk it; her and Éomer's impending betrothal was to be kept a secret! She turned back to her brother with a frosty glare and said mildly,

"Who? The cat? I had not planned on it."

"You know of whom I am speaking."

Lothíriel lifted a brow. "You shall have to wait to see whether you receive an invitation, won't you?"

Serves him right for prodding her for answers so publically! If they had been alone, she might have spoken plainly with him. That would have to wait until she was in a more charitable mood—the gall of him! But Amrothos was not bothered by her snappishness, throwing back his head and laughing loudly.

"You should name the cat  _Muron_ , sister of mine," he said, startling her with the change of topic. "I hear the Rohirrim are plain people, and might appreciate a cat named 'cat' rather than 'child of the moon' or some such nonsense."

The kitten mewled at her feet, and Lothíriel glanced down. Oh,  _no_ —he was purring as he rubbed against the toe of her slipper. He  _liked_  the name Muron! She would never forgive Amrothos the joke.

"Well, come on, Muron," she said, nudging open the door with her elbow. "I think we have had enough of your Uncle Amrothos's company for today. Did you draw blood? I shall have to teach you his most sensitive spots."

Still his laughter echoed, and she shut the door behind them.

* * *

There was a garbled voice in her head. Was it her own voice? And what language could it be? A shaft of light pierced her eyelids painfully. Lothíriel bolted upright in her chair, her face peeling away from chapter 4 of  _Common and Uncommon Vocabularies of the Rohirrim,_ reading  _Conjugating Regular Verbs_.

"My lady?"

Garbled indeed! How foreign Sindarin sounded with so many odd Rohirric words in her head. Lothíriel turned in her chair to see a maid, curtseying in the doorway.

"Lord Belegorn is here to see you, my lady."

Lord Belegorn? The very one who had tried kissing her in her father's gardens not three months ago, but when the Rohirric ladies had arrived, refused to even look her way for a week straight? A flare of old indignation gave her pause—how rewarding would it be to give the faithless man a piece of her mind! But oddly enough, she had spared him no thought in recent days. Why did it matter if he had deserted her for the company of fair-haired women? It only proved his fickleness. And she was to be wed, anyway.

Her resentment fizzled and died. Lothíriel gave a sigh.

"I am not receiving visitors today," she told the maid, and after a hesitant moment added, "Please give him my regards." Then she need never think of him again, and her conscience could be clear. On this score, at least.

Alone again at the soft thud of the door, Lothíriel slouched in her chair, rubbing her eyes. She had not meant to fall asleep! Amrothos had been more correct than he would know; studying a language by oneself was a terrible sort of dullness. And now that it seemed to fill most of the hours in her days, she was beginning to wonder where Westron started and Rohirric ended and Sindarin filled in the cracks…

The sun shining through the open window was a watery, mopey grey. She smoothed down the page of the books she had fallen asleep on, blinking at the unfamiliar words. What had she been studying?

...Oh, yes,  _Lufian,_  to love or cherish. A word she would probably never have to use, Lothíriel thought bitterly. But she would learn them, all the same, and picked up a quill to write the conjugations.

_Ic lufe…þu lufest…he lufaþ…hit lufaþ…heo lufaþ…_

She shivered in a sudden brisk of wind that shuddered through the window above her desk. Lothíriel glanced up to see that the sky had grown overcast, and she could hear the banners of her father's house ripping in the wind. Standing to latch the window shut, she fetched a wool shawl from the trunk where her winter clothes were kept. Had the remainder of summer passed so quickly?

She must have been too distracted, of late, to notice summer's wane. Perhaps she could wander outside every so often, now that the flowers would be dead. It would break up the hours of Rohirric, if nothing else.

As it so happened, autumn arrived that very night, and in the morning the buildings and streets of Minas Tirith were coated with a fine, sparkling frost. The remainder of Lothíriel's warm clothing were washed and freshened for use, and she had her desk moved close to the hearth where she could be comfortable by the fire.

Along with the cold, autumn also brought correspondence from Rohan. Faramir, who ate at his uncle's house with regularity, happily relayed details of his letter from Éowyn, speaking of her enthusiasm for the wedding and how surprised she and Éomer had been at the bountiful harvest in Rohan. Lothíriel affected less interest than she felt; Faramir's enthusiasm really was not at all fashionable. But it did him well, for she did notice that he looked far younger when thinking of his bride than she had ever seen him.

It was his last supper with them, in fact, for Faramir said that it was high time he returned to Ithilien to see that the rebuilding was coming along for the wedding, which would take place on Midwinter's Day. Lothíriel guessed (and quite accurately, she thought), that he would have spent all his time there, were he not required so often by Elessar.

"There is a letter for you, too, Lothíriel," Imrahil said, once the house had quieted in the black of night.

She paused on her way back to her chamber, and beside her, Muron meowed in confusion. "For me?" Lothíriel asked stupidly.

"I was going to give it to you before supper, but I arrived too late." Her father produced a sealed letter from his doublet, and gave it to her with a knowing smile.

"Er—thank you." It was light in her hand, and she guessed that the writer had not waxed eloquent. Was it from Éomer? Her heart pounded at this thought—what could he have to say to her? Informally intended they may be, but acquainted enough to keep a correspondence?

"If you are wanting to send a response, see that you give it to me by the week's end. The wedding is too soon to delay messengers, if you are wanting Éomer to receive your response before he leaves as well."

Lothíriel could do nothing but nod, and with a kiss on her forehead in farewell, Imrahil left her standing alone in the corridor. Great Ulmo below! So it  _was_  Éomer—she was unprepared for her physical response to this confirmation. Ignoring the flutters in her belly, she turned on her heel and hurried to the privacy of her chamber. Muron's paws padded on the stone floor beside her.

She admired in the firelight the seal—a horse's head in green wax, for a scant moment before breaking it with trembling fingers. What in Arda was wrong with her? It was only a letter! There would be nothing significant contained therein, surely.

Her surmise was correct—though Lothíriel was unsure, once she finished reading, whether she was relieved or disappointed. Éomer wrote merely to inquire of her health, and to assure her that all was well in Rohan. Which she had hardly fretted for! The final paragraph was the most interesting:

_It has been agreed upon that our betrothal will be announced several days following Éowyn's wedding. She said she did not mind if the two events were the same night, but I assured her I hadn't a desire to draw attention away from her. Her response was merely to roll her eyes. Anyway, I digress—after our betrothal, I have it on good authority that our marriage contract will be of utmost importance before we go our separate ways. It is dull work, getting married…_

"Not as dull as learning Rohirric," Lothíriel muttered aloud with a scowl. Why was she so disheartened? What had she expected—words of love and devotion? From Éomer? To  _her_? Ha!

But the thought of a formal betrothal and marriage contracts disquieted her peace more than she expected. When she had approached her father to suggest an alliance to Rohan by her marrying Éomer, she had considered none of that. The only thought which had been on her mind was setting to right her reputation in Minas Tirith. Which she was hardly helping now; she had not attended any balls since Éomer had left…

If there was one thing to truly detest about Minas Tirith, it was the wind. Lothíriel had not studied natural sciences enough to know  _why_  the blasted city had to suffer through such constant wind, and so she merely cursed the mountains around them, as most citizens had for years. Though there was no snow, the biting air found its way through her fur cloak and woollen frock to nip at her skin. It was with red cheeks that she and her maid half-ran back to her father's house, which she now regretted leaving in the first place, and laden with wares from the market. She hadn't  _needed_  new ribbon and trimming, per say, but her solitude was wearing on her, and apart from the wind, her venture had been somewhat refreshing.

The servants' entrance, being closest to the gate from the Fifth Circle, was nearest, and Lothíriel shouldered through the door. Welcome warmth met her—the kitchens were just beyond a short entryway, and she could smell supper.  _No more markets_ , she swore to herself in bad humor, passing her cloak to a hovering servant.

"Good afternoon, my lady," he said with a bow.

"Good afternoon. Please see that—" She was interrupted by a screech, and the servant glanced around with wide eyes. Another scream, and muffled  _thumps_  and  _bangs_. Curiously, Lothíriel guessed that the noises were coming from the pantry door, also in the entryway, and she strode forward to open it.

"No, my lady—" the servant tried, but she ignored him.

Two sculleries were a heap of skirts and flailing fists, red-faced from anger and positively spitting. As she watched, one struck the other in the chin, and the girl on the ground let out a howl of pain. Immediate annoyance—both at the behavior of servants who certainly knew better, and that carry on in her father's house. Lothíriel forced her clenched jaw apart, and snapped,

"Stop at once!"

The girls must have recognized her voice, for soon two pairs of bloodshot eyes were staring up at her in fright to be discovered in such a state. Lothíriel arched a brow as they stumbled to their feet, smoothing down matted hair and straightened their aprons, one of which was torn.

"I did not realize I had entered the stables," she said coolly. The maids were looking at the ground, their heads bowed, though there was definite trembling in their shoulders.

"My lady, I—"

Lothíriel did not look around, but heard the cook's heavy breathing as she approached.

"I apologize, my lady, I had not realized—these wenches don't like each other much, I try to keep them apart—"

"Which evidently does not work," Lothíriel said frostily. The cook quieted, a show of contriteness to be reprimanded by her master's daughter.

Lothíriel used the tense silence as an opportunity to think—she had never cared much for managing servants, and as a general rule, she had always sent these sorts of issues to her father to deal with. But Imrahil, she knew, was in Merethrond that day with Elessar. This likely could not wait—she saw the two girls glaring at each other where they thought she could not see.

"Cook," she said loudly. "These girls are to work half hours at half pay. One in the morning, and one in the evening, if you please. When they can agree to leave their personal feelings for each other out of the kitchens, they may return to their full hours and full pay."

"Yes, my lady." The cook curtsied.

"Is that understood?" Lothíriel said sharply to the sculleries. They bobbed down at well, muttering in unison under their breaths,

"Yes, my lady."

"If this occurs again, your positions will be forfeit."

She knew enough of household management that this sort of threat was only to ensure compliance; her father had only ever sacked one servant, to her memory.

The silence she took as affirmation, and Lothíriel swept out of the pantry, feeling oddly confident. From threatening the poor girls? Surely not! Once she was in her warm chambers, the bright-colors ribbons she had bought strewn across her lap and mostly ignored, she had time to consider it further. Lothíriel wondered if this confidence came from feeling as though she had accomplished something. She had certainly stopped the fight, and she had given orders to see that it did not happen again. Would it succeed? How could it? The cunning of her father she may have, but his wisdom? Certainly not!

Oh, no. Would she be required to manage such things as Éomer's wife? Likely so—most wives did. Though she could not begin to assume the traditions in Rohan. And as queen? Certainly there would be more to her responsibilities than taking care of a household.

Her imagination seized this thought and went positively wild. Lothíriel had no notion of what Rohan was like; not really. She could stumble through a few phrases of the language, she knew its king and his sister. Would the Rohirrim welcome a Gondorian for a king? Or would the loyalty they had for their new king outweigh any reluctance? For surely they admired Éomer, Lothíriel decided—how could they not?

Autumn wore on. Elphir and his family arrived from Dol Amroth to travel with them to Ithilien for Faramir's wedding. It seemed that excitement for the steward's impending nuptials to the great shieldmaiden from Rohan was causing a great stir in Minas Tirith. When Lothíriel sent for several merchants to bring silks to her father's house that she and Elphir's wife might choose fabrics for their wedding outfits, the main bulk of the selections green and white.

"'Tis to celebrate the wedding, my lady," one merchant explained with a bow. "The dark greens are in the greatest demand; precisely the shade that adorns the banners of our northern brothers."

Elphir's wife, Naimith, was all too pleased at the sight of these novel fashions, but Lothíriel frowned when she was sure no one was watching—she had no interest in pandering to a trend that likely would not survive to the next winter. White was terribly impractical in the winter, for she was sure that there would be snow in Ithilien. And pale shades made her skin look pasty, anyway. She would not be drawn into choosing styles simply because everyone else was wearing them.

Naimith settled upon the darkest shade of green available, which looked a rich black in darkness. Lothíriel was harder to please, but at last one merchant produced a length of golden silk which she found satisfactory. The tailors would have the frocks ready in three days, for their party would be departing for Ithilien in less than a week…

She could not help but be annoyed at how fashionable Rohan was becoming. Lothíriel felt that it smacked of hypocrisy—the court in Minas Tirith had turned up its figurative nose at anything Rohirric for many years, decades even, perhaps. Diplomacy was no bad thing, but colors and clothing would hardly bring about better alliances. And this was why, a few days later, she nearly lost her temper in front of her maid.

"Would you me to plait your hair, my lady?" was the simple inquiry.

Lothíriel, sitting at her vanity with  _Language Through Song_  up to her nose, glanced up at her maid, startled. "Plait?" she repeated stupidly. "Whatever for?"

The maid shifted uneasily, but continued, "All the ladies in the city are plaiting their hair now, my lady. Two plaits down their back, just as the women of Rohan."

Lothíriel's fingers clenched around her book. She knew her maid was quite right in recognizing the fashion; she herself had seen Numriel riding with several young men from her window the other day, and indeed, Numriel's black hair had been plaited. But to Lothíriel, that was all the more reason not to give in.

"No, thank you," she said stonily. "My usual style will suffice."

"Yes, my lady."

When she was Queen of Rohan, she would dress as one of them. But fashions be hanged! She would not do something simply because everyone else was.

But as soon as her maid left the chamber, Lothíriel sat forward and wrenched her curls out of the bun at the nape of her neck. Morbidly curious more than anything, she was quick to part her hair and attempt some semblance of the popular twin braids. She stared at her reflection for some time after she had tied them off—it was a look she was unaccustomed to. The plaits framed her face, and she thought they even softened her features. It was no  _bad_  style; it was merely the pandering reasons for its being taken up in Minas Tirith that she had a quarrel with.

Lothíriel bit her lip. Would Éomer think her prettier with plaits?

 _It is not Éomer's purpose to think you are pretty_ , she scolded herself, tugging free the braids posthaste, embarrassed at her actions and her thoughts.

When at last they set out for Ithilien, Lothíriel was no less perturbed.


	6. Chapter 6

_Winter, 3020 T.A., Ithilien_

"Are you well, Lothíriel?"

She started to feel her father's hand on her shoulder, and turned from where she had been staring out the window of Faramir's guesthouse to the freshly fallen snow beyond. Lothíriel forced a smile.

"I am well, Father."

She was not well. And it must have been obvious to Imrahil's eyes, for he was not mollified.

"You have been terribly pale," he said, and lifted her chin to better scrutinize her face. "And quiet. Perhaps you think I have not noticed that you have been attending fewer functions and your friends no longer visit—but I have. What is troubling you? Are you nervous for your betrothal?"

Nervous did not even begin to cover how Lothíriel was feeling. But she had no desire to delve into her deepest secret feelings with her father. So she managed a real smile and said airily, "Oh, it is true I spend less time with friends. But I have other concerns now, Father; I am no longer a child."

For a moment Lothíriel was sure Imrahil would see past her confidence and question further, but then his eyes softened, and he bent over to kiss her forehead.

"I cannot express how much it pleases me that you are finally growing in a woman worthy of your mother," he said. "Perhaps I have not told you as often as I ought, but I am proud to call you my daughter." He was smiling broadly now, touching her cheek gently. "You will make a wonderful Queen of Rohan."

Her stomach fluttered with anxiety, and thankfully her father took his leave soon after. She was left alone in her chamber. Tears coming to her eyes, Lothíriel returned her attention to the snow outside, biting her lip painfully.

_A wonderful Queen of Rohan._

Oh, the pain Imrahil gave with that statement! Last summer Lothíriel would have gloated just to be queen, but now her stomach twisted with nerves and her head pounded and her hands shook. She crossed her arms tightly, as if to protect herself.

What had she been thinking?

The answer was all too obvious, and it made her squirm with discomfort. She had not considered even for a moment what marrying Éomer would entail, nor living with him in Edoras for the remainder of her life. She had not thought what responsibilities would come with her coveted title! Her family would be a three-weeks journey away, and Lothíriel would be amongst people whom she did not know.

This reality had set in the last days, away from her usual pursuits. Lothíriel feared it; just as she feared seeing Éomer again. The delegation from Rohan would arrive that day, and she did not know what to do. Would he greet her familiarly, as her soon-to-be betrothed? Or formally, as he would anyone else? How should she greet him?

No answer came to her.

Within the hour, she was outside the guesthouse, shivering despite her furs, to welcome the approaching stream of horses. The barren forest released the riders from its fog all at once; browns and golds and greens, looking bright against the winter woods. There was a great deal of joviality which could be heard from the road, echoing eerily in the cold. As she watched a bay horse broke away from the rest and galloped forward.

Golden hair streamed behind the rider, and Lady Éowyn's laughter was heard before her features were fully recognizable. With a pang in her heart, Lothíriel saw Faramir rush forward, and as soon as Éowyn approached she swung her leg over the saddle and positively leapt into his arms. Lothíriel averted her eyes from the enthusiastic kisses, rather focusing on the stablehand who hurried to take the horse's reins.

"Smile," she heard Amrothos mutter beside her, and Lothíriel turned to glare at his grinning face. "You look as though you are attending your own execution."

"Oh, stuff it," she said crossly. "Not all of us enjoy standing out in the cold."

"But  _you_  should be enjoying it—look who is approaching now!"

Lothíriel sucked in a breath, catching sight of Éomer astride his huge horse at the front of the group even before Amrothos had mentioned it. He was more handsome than she remembered; relaxed despite the cold, his smile flashing his delight and his hair shining gold. His dark green cloak was trimmed with fur, and he looked more a king than any man she had ever seen, despite his unkingly cheeriness.

What had she been thinking?

The weight of guilt at her duplication made her shudder; how could she have ever assumed a man like Éomer would be content wedding a fraud like her?

Immersed in her thoughts, she was hardly paying heed to Éomer dismounting at the foot of the steps, only sparing his sister a bare, amused glance before ascending to greet Imrahil. Then Elphir, Naimith, Erchirion, finally Amrothos, and then—he was standing in front of her, tall as ever and looking mightily pleased with himself. Lothíriel stared up at him, her throat dry.

"Well?" he said. "Are you going to greet me?"

She still did not know how! Aware that Amrothos was covertly observing them as Éowyn, too greeted their father, Lothíriel forced a smile. "I am glad that you have arrived safely," she said, proffering her hand, which he took.

"And I am glad that you are glad." Éomer's eyes were twinkling, and she flushed as she felt the warmth from his lips even through her mittens. "Now that we have established that we are both glad—" But before he could finish the thought, he was elbowed aside by Éowyn, who was smiling hugely.

"Cousin!" she said, and kissed Lothíriel's cold cheek. There was a knowing glint in Éowyn's eye—undoubtedly the secret of the impending betrothal. Lothíriel managed a grin in return, hoping the lady would pass over her soon. But it was not to be. Éowyn wove her arm through her own, and determinedly left the menfolk behind as a guard opened the doors to Faramir's house for them.

It was a good deal warmer with a great stone hearth heating the room, but Lothíriel could not relax. Servants bustled forward to take their outerwear, and to bring forth cups of steaming tea.

"How was your journey?" she asked Éowyn, barely having the presence of thought to do so. The men had followed them inside—she could hear Éomer's voice speaking to Erchirion. How could her ears pick him out so well?

"Oh, it was lovely!" the lady said, her eyes travelling the width and height of the hall with a great deal of interest. "Winter is the prettiest season, I think—despite the cold."

"Ah, yes. It seems positively miserable to me. The journey from Minas Tirith was relatively mild, and I am enormously thankful for that!"

Éowyn's eyes were dancing as they fastened on Lothíriel, hanging back with her tea and feeling uncomfortable. "The Rohirrim are more than adept at travelling through snow," she said. "The nights were quite cozy. Come, you have been here longer than I. I must have a tour!"

But Faramir was there, clasping Éowyn's shoulders from behind and leaning his head low to say, " _I_  will be giving you the tour, dear heart." The lady flushed a happy pink, turning to take his arm. Farewelling Lothíriel at once, they disappeared from the hall. She was left staring after them at the abrupt exit, wondering why she felt such discomfort at the sight of her cousin and his bride's easy affection. Then there was a warm hand on her elbow, and she started.

"I wonder if your father will protest if I cart you away in such an manner." It was Éomer, of course—and Lothíriel glanced up to see that he had been watching Éowyn and Faramir, too. Then his eyes turned on her, shining warmth into her entire being. She smiled weakly.

"I do not believe so," she said. "It seems your captain has engaged him in conversation."

Éomer was trying to hide a grin—and failing. "I may have asked my captain to do so," he said lightly. "So, will you?"

"Will I what?"

"Grace me with a tour of Faramir's house. My host has absconded with my sister, you see, and I have no one else to apply to."

"Not my brothers?" Lothíriel asked, arching a brow in disbelief.

He laughed. "Oh! I was worried the winter had done away with your humor. I have no interest in asking your brothers, my girl. I want  _you._ " There was a tone in his voice Lothíriel had never heard before; an earnestness and a heat and insinuation that she did not fully understand, but knew enough to promptly blush.

"I would be pleased to accompany you," she said primly, and he offered his arm. Lothíriel barely kept her fingers from trembling as she took it.  _What_  had happened to her? She glanced back as they left the hall—but her father and brothers did not notice their departure. She tried to keep her breath steady as they entered the chilly corridor, wandering at a slow pace as she tried to think of something to say.

"Do not think you are required to bore me with architectural details," Éomer said to the silence, and when she glanced up, there was a mischievous glint in his eye. "I only wished to see you, away from the others."

There was a distinct flutter in her breast. "Oh—oh, is that so?"

"Indeed. Tell me of your cat."

This abrupt and unexpected turn in the topic confused Lothíriel for the briefest moment; what had she been expecting? Words of love? Ha! She shook herself. "Muron is well," she told him. "He stayed behind in Minas Tirith—he has been keeping our quarters free of mice."

" _Muron_? You named your cat, 'cat'?"

She flushed, giving him a reproachful frown. "Amrothos named him."

Éomer gave a short laugh. "I suppose the likelihood of my tripping over the thing is the same. You are bringing him to Meduseld, I assume?"

"Oh—er, yes...?"

A pause. "Are you asking my consent?"

"N—no, I only had not considered it."

There was silence. Lothíriel, feeling as though she had said the wrong thing, peeked up at Éomer. He was studying her intently, a small smile lifting his lips. She did not understand the glint in his eyes.  _There is much that I have not considered_ , she thought to herself, but she could not say it aloud.

Éomer paused their steps where they were, and glanced around them—the corridor was now empty apart from them. His gaze returned to her, and before she knew what was happening, he tilted her chin upwards and kissed her on the mouth.

"I missed you," he said to her wide eyes, as her lips parted in astonishment. "And anyways—Lothíriel, are you well? Lothíriel?"

Her legs gave out.

Éomer said something under his breath as he tried to catch her, but she did not understand it. Hastily he reached for her, but it was too late to catch her by the waist—he lunged further. Lothíriel stared stupidly at him as she felt her shoulder hit the hard stone of the floor, and she blinked stars from her eyes. There was a  _squeak_  of wet boot on polished stone, and another curse. Something  _very_  heavy landed on her, and her breath was quite gone.

"Sorry," she heard grunted from above. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to breathe. Her ears were ringing.

"Éomer?  _Lothíriel_?"

There was scrambling as the weight left her, and Lothíriel groaned as she lifted a hand to touch her now-pounding head. She heard hurried footsteps approaching. Amrothos's face came into view, and he pulled her arm roughly until she was standing on her two numb feet.

"What is this?" he snapped, and she winced at the sharp sound.

"Is it not what you are thinking," Éomer said back, equally sharp. "Your sister fainted—I slipped and lost my balance when I tried to catch her."

"Lothíriel, is this true?"

Her heart was hammering in her throat, and she swallowed to clear it. "Y—yes. It was an accident." Whatever  _it_  was, that was causing Amrothos such annoyance.

"My father saw the two of you leave, and allowed it  _in good faith_ ," Amrothos continued, and his fingers on her arms hurt like a vice. He was staring at Éomer with daggers in his eyes. "If this is the sort of behavior that you two—"

Lothíriel shook her head, forcing her wits back in place—and yanked her arm away with a scowl. "Amrothos!" she said, aghast. "How could you say such a thing? I  _fainted_. Éomer was only trying to help." Both men stared at her, and she lifted her chin.

"But why did you faint?" Amrothos prodded.

"I have not eaten anything today, of course," she hedged. "Really, you are too suspicious!" Her brother's eyes narrowed at her, but Lothíriel had lied too much in her life to be intimidated by it. She met his gaze levelly, and his shoulders relaxed.

"Very well," he said. "I apologize for my conclusion."

"We accept your apology," she said quickly. "You may leave us."

A final, wary look between them—and Amrothos obeyed. Her knees were shaking underneath her skirt, and she felt Éomer take hold of her elbow.

"I am sorry," she murmured, not quite ready to meet his eyes. Her face was hot, and surely bright red.

"Nay—'tis my own clumsiness to blame. And I should have dried my boots properly after coming inside."

"You are hardly clumsy. I was stupid to faint."

"Well, perhaps I should have warned you before I kissed you. Or at least made sure you had eaten." There was a tremor of hilarity in his voice, and Lothíriel glared up at him with. Éomer was trying, unsuccessfully, to hide a smile. How could he laugh at her? And  _now_  of all times? "Or was that only for the benefit of Amrothos?" he asked, a brow raising.

"It was," she confirmed through gritted teeth. "I did not want to tell my brother I swooned because you  _kissed_   _me_."

"I appreciate your plain-speaking," Éomer replied, and he chuckled, picking up her hand to tuck it snugly on his arm. "Show me to your rooms then, if the remainder of our tour is curtailed."

"My—?"

"Yes, so that you can rest. Whether or not you  _have_  eaten, which remains a mystery to me, you do not look well."

She flushed.

"Not to say you look  _badly_ —far from it, in fact." From the way his brown eyes were twinkling, she imagined Éomer to be enjoying himself very much. "But you  _are_ a bit pale."

It was the second time that day someone had commented on her wanness, and it was more than enough. She nodded stiffly for them to adjust their course towards the guest wing. Lothíriel allowed Éomer to lead her at a slow pace. She did not speak—what could she say? He might appreciate her plain-speaking, but it was bitter to her tongue. She had never felt so brainless.

There was never a more welcome sight than the door to her chamber.

"I will take my leave," Éomer said, and his voice sounded strange after the silence of their walk. Lothíriel, her legs working somewhat better, took her hand from him, and inclined her head in parting.

"Thank you for your assistance," she told him. "And—and I am sorry for—for fainting."

He grinned suddenly, and his eyes were, for some unknown reason— _warm_. "Do not be," he said lightly. "I have learned a hard lesson. I will warn you the next time I kiss you."

 _The next time._  Lothíriel placed a hand on the doorframe to steady herself, forcing a smile. "Good day, Éomer," she said. "I will see you later, I suspect."

"I will count the minutes until then."


	7. Chapter 7

The following days were a flurry of excitements. Following the arrival of Éowyn and Éomer, Faramir's entire household plunged into an impossibly frenzied state. Elessar and Queen Arwen soon arrived with what seemed to be all of Minas Tirith's nobles, and since then Lothíriel had not had a moment to herself. She had barely seen Éomer, either—even during the wedding feast itself, they had only danced together once. There were simply too many guests for one's attentions to be exclusive.

To her dismay, Faramir had taken his uncle's advice some weeks back that there be entertainments planned following the wedding, for those who were not newly-wed to have some enjoyment. He had arranged a series of tournaments—sword-fighting, spear-throwing, wrestling, fist-fighting, riding courses and races, and archery, both on foot and horseback.

Lothíriel observed the fray below with cool but unhappy eyes. She was sitting in a newly-constructed wooden stand, overhung with thick fabrics to keep the wind out, and with wooden stoves heating the seats from below. Still she shivered in the chilly air, huddled in her furs as she was. But the tournament below held little appeal; it was mostly for the recreation of the soldiers, anyway.

It was terribly dull.

There was little company for her in the stand, which ought to have held her father and brothers, Faramir and Éowyn, and especially Elessar and Queen Arwen. But her brothers had gone to participate in the tournaments, Faramir and Éowyn were nowhere to be found, and her king and queen had only stayed for an hour before leaving. Only her father loyally remained, and Lothíriel wished  _she_  could come and go as she pleased. Besides the dullness, she was chilled to the bone.

"Amrothos has not a chance."

Lothíriel dragged her attention back to the hand-to-hand fighting, which was divided into several rings below. Amrothos, his black moppy head easily visible in the crowd, was paired off with a positive bear of man—a man of Rohan whose arms, bare even in the cold, looked thick enough to pull a tree from the the ground.

"It does seem poorly matched. He likely volunteered to fight the man because no one else wished to," she said dryly.

"That does sound like our Amrothos," her father replied, chuckling to himself. "Care to wager a gold piece?"

Lothíriel glanced at her father, who was watching the start of the fight with shrewd eyes. She sighed, her heart twisting oddly in exasperation at—at  _everything_. "No, thank you," she said, and startling him, she hastened to add, "I would not be so foolish to bet against the large man."

Imrahil laughed again, and thankfully accepted her explanation. Together they observed the inevitable and painful-looking defeat of Amrothos, who, after only a short time, was limping away with a blackened eye but forcing a smile in the direction of the opposite side of the courtyard; where the remainder of the guests were watching (mostly young ladies). Imrahil lamented the loss with good humor, and Lothíriel sighed to herself.

After the hand-fighting, the yard was cleared for riding. Servants brought drinks and refreshments, and still Lothíriel's stupor kept her only half-aware. The warm mead brought some feeling to her fingers as she held it, but in the cold air it chilled quickly.

"May I sit by you?"

She started, nearly spilling the mead on her cloak as she twisted to see Éowyn, bright-eyed, gazing down at her with a smile. Faramir lingered behind, looking no less pleased with himself though he was watching the soldiers below.

"Oh—of course," Lothíriel said, and the new princess swept into her seat with all the elegance that Lothíriel could only hope for. But instead of burning envy, which she would have felt last spring—Lothíriel only felt hollow.

Éowyn leaned close as if whispering a secret, saying, "Éomer insisted that we come to watch him ride."

"He—he is going to compete?"

"Of course! Éomer would never decline a riding competition. I have never seen him lose."

"Ah…oh." Lothíriel felt like smacking herself in her face; could she think of nothing wittier to say? Nothing even remotely conversational? Even thinking of Éomer and the anticipation of seeing him made her stomach turn with anxiety. To hide this, she turned towards the courtyard, where the first of the riders was reining in his horse at the far end. On the opposite side, a pole had been set up and from it hung a wreath woven from colorful ribbons, high in the air and waving in the wind. A horn sounded, and the fair-haired rider adjusted his spear in hand. His horse spring forward with no visible command, hooves thundering in the hushed, anticipating air.

A groan rose from the crowds as he missed the hoop entirely, and dejected, the rider moved aside for the next competitor.

"Bad luck," Éowyn said beside her with a sigh. "It does seem the wreath is smaller than normal—Faramir, did you intend that?"

"I did," Faramir replied. "I know your Rohirrim are better riders than we are; I had to level the chances a bit."

Lothíriel bit her lip to keep from laughing, which her cousin and his bride did, the sound echoing merrily. Did it surprise her that Éowyn was not offended by Faramir's attempt to hinder the Rohirrim? Indeed it did—but it did not, either. If Éomer was there, would he laugh too? It seemed likely.

A rider wearing the swan-ship of Dol Amroth on his sleeve was next, and just as the first, he failed to catch the wreath on his spear. Imrahil sighed, shaking his head.

"More drills with spears," he muttered to himself.

"Do you ride, Lothíriel?"

Lothíriel blinked, turning to look at Éowyn, who was smiling kindly. She swallowed—what could she say? "Not very well," she admitted at last. This was the truth. She could only hope the princess would not compare answers with her brother! "I have always given my attention to—to other matters," she explained lamely. That the other matters were gossip and young men, she did not say.

"I see. Perhaps the right horse would make a difference." Éowyn's eyes were twinkling. They were the same shade as her brother's, and Lothíriel's polite smile felt forced.

"Perhaps."

More groans from the crowd. Another rider—this one wearing Elessar's livery, threw his spear on the ground in frustration. This did not deter the ladies on the opposite side of the courtyard; many white handkerchiefs were waving. He  _was_  an exceptionally handsome man, Lothíriel thought. But while she might have sought him out later for a flirtation, the notion did not appeal to her one whit. She did see Wilrith's pudgy, eager face in the faraway crowd; she too was holding a handkerchief for the guard. Lothíriel pursed her lips disdainfully.

Several more riders attempted to spear the wreath, but to no avail. One after one, they were disappointed. Lothíriel cared little, but could sense Éowyn's agitation beside her.

"Perhaps the hoop is  _too_ small," the lady said gallantly, in defense of a Rohirric man whose name she said was Elfhelm.

"I would not judge it as such quite yet," Faramir said.

Éowyn hummed in agreement. "That is fair. I am sure Éomer shan't have any trouble."

 _Of course not_ , Lothíriel thought.  _Perfect Éomer will succeed, naturally. If only he would ride next so that this could end…_

More riders. More failures. The overcast sky made it seem as though they were stuck in the day forever; the sun's descent, which surely was nearing, made no change in the light. Would the tournament never end?

"There he is! I am sure he wished to be last a-purpose." Éowyn nearly leapt out of her chair, her hands clenching the armrests in excitement as she spotted her brother. Lothíriel likewise recognized Éomer, though he wore strange armor and a helm covered his face. But the set of his shoulders was impossible to mistake for anyone else. His warhorse—Lothíriel could not recall its name—pranced to the starting point, snorting and shifting his weight as if sensing the excitement of the crowd.  _The King! The King of Rohan will win!_ , was the general sentiment. Some scoffed, and Lothíriel, trying not to let the exhilaration affect her, could not help shivering.

Éomer placed a gloved hand on his horse's neck, and the beast stilled. He spun the spear in his hand, tilting his head briefly towards their stand. Éowyn was clapping her hands in excitement, her color high. Lothíriel bit her lip.

The horse screamed, and sprang forward so quickly that any other rider might have fallen. But this was no ordinary rider, Lothíriel chided herself. Of course the King of the Horselords would be the most accomplished from among them. He lowered his spear to aim for the hoop, and a collective breath was drawn from the entire watching crowd. Lothíriel clenched her fur cloak together at her throat, trying to keep her heart from racing. No such luck.

Utter silence, apart from the thundering hoofbeats. Just audible was the sound of the beribboned wreath, sliding down Éomer's spear with a  _whoosh_  and a  _thump_. The crowd burst into roars of approval.

Éowyn had stood, adding her voice to the noise as Lothíriel flinched, at last letting out the breath she had been holding. Éomer was now taking the perimeter of the yard, his horse positively prancing as the shouts of admiration grew. He passed the sea of white handkerchiefs. His popularity had not dimmed in the last months, and Lothíriel looked away, unable to bear it.

Her father's eyes were glinting in her direction with a wry smile, and flushing at the insinuation, she wished she had continued to watch Éomer's trek.

"I should have known you would only have the best," Imrahil said with a chuckle. Lothíriel returned the smile stiffly.

Éomer had removed his helm and set it on the front of his saddle, and so his mischievous smile was clearly visible as his horse trotted towards their stand. His eyes met hers, and held them captive. Her heart thumped.

He reined in the horse, coming to a stop—not in front of her father, not in front of his sister—but clearly in front of  _her_. Éomer lowered the spear, and after a split-second of fear, Lothíriel realized he was offering her the wreath.  _Oh, no_ … The noise around them had dimmed, and were there whispers now?

"Lothíriel…" she heard her father mutter beside her. She shook herself from her stupor and stood. Just as her fingers touched the end of the cold ribbons, Éomer hefted his spear back in the air, shaking his head with a grin. The hoop slid several inches back towards him.

"For a kiss," he said.

Lothíriel's mouth fell open. Was he  _mad_? Her  _father_  was only a few feet away! Éowyn was positively laughing—were there titters coming from the crowd? If she kissed him, it would be declaring their intentions in public! No one, apart from their relations, knew of the betrothal feast which would take place in four days' time. But Éomer's twinkling eyes showed that  _he_ , at least, was willing to announce things a bit sooner. What choice did she have, without the risk of offending him? She nodded shortly.

Éomer nudged his horse forward until he was standing alongside the barrier, and Lothíriel leaned forward out of the stand. If he was going to tease her, she would give it right back—she aimed for his bearded cheek. But at the last second, he turned his head and her lips met his.

Face tingling with a hot red flush, Lothíriel retreated at once. Her ears were ringing, and she could not hear whatever reaction was coursing through the eagerly watching spectators. Éomer was laughing, and he inclined his head towards her father as he offered the wreath to her once more. Lothíriel snatched it, and sat down as quickly as she could, attempting some semblance of dignity.

"My lady," Éomer said, inclining his head. "Good day to you." She returned the nod stiffly, wishing that she could disappear. Everyone was looking at her as he reined his horse back towards the lists—she was positive of  _that_.

"A cruel trick!" Éowyn said loudly beside her. "I am sorry for my brother, Lothíriel. Sometimes he has no shame at all!"

"I do not think any admonishment is going to reach him," Faramir told his bride dryly.

"He needs no admonishment." Imrahil startled them all which his jovial words. "Let the man claim a prize for his gift! Lothíriel did not mind—did you, my dear?"

"No," she mumbled. She kept her face averted from her companions; she did not want them to see her turmoil.

As embarrassing as the scene was, Lothíriel could not help the warm feeling blossoming in her breast as her eyes followed Éomer's straight back. Oh, no! Why was she feeling so  _warm_? Though she quite admired Éomer in many ways, that was  _all_  she felt, surely. There was simply no accounting for the odd thumping in her heart which had been accosting her those last minutes.

Though she watched as the yard was quickly prepared for the next competition, she did not see. There were too many roiling feelings in her breast. Admiration at Éomer's feat, some pride at having been given the prize (though less than she expected), and attraction for the handsome king. She wished he would come sit with them—she had a great deal to say. And somehow she anticipated their next banter with pleasure.

Oh, great Ulmo below! She had not developed  _feelings_ for him, had she?

A hasty assessment confirmed that she had, and her face burned. Éomer's goodness would be impossible  _not_  to love, especially for Lothíriel. She had never before beheld such plain  _goodness_ , excepting perhaps his sister. His marked attentions after they had agreed to marry made her think he would be a good and faithful husband. And his teasing—as much as it was insufferable at times, often made their time spent together enjoyable. She loved him! Oh, how she loved him!

"Lothíriel? It is time for supper."

Jolted from her reverie, Lothíriel accepted her father's proffered hand with a smile. She had not noticed the conclusion of the tournament—the crowd was dispersing and mingling with the soldiers. With some disappointment, she did not see Éomer's distinguishing height.

"It was a good tournament," Imrahil said heartily as they made their way back towards Faramir's house. Her cousin and his lady had gone on ahead.

"Yes," Lothíriel replied absently, fingering the ribbons which she still held. "I hope that I might regain feeling back in my feet before tomorrow."

Her father laughed, but there was no more opportunity for a private conversation. As they strode through the open doors, the crowd swarmed in behind them, seeking warmth. Lothíriel was pulled towards their quarters by Imrahil, and without warning something hard shoved into her shoulder, and she stumbled. Her father kept her on her feet, and Lothíriel glared at the back of an unfamiliar woman, who was striding away from them without looking back.

"Are you well?" Imrahil asked with concern.

"I am. But others are not, it seems."

Her father glanced at the woman as well just before she disappeared into the crowd, and he shook his head. "Pay them no heed," he said.

"I will not."

But her aching shoulder suggested otherwise.


	8. Chapter 8

Lothíriel winced as she lifted her arms over her head, allowing the maid to tug her frock down to cover her creamy white shift. As the maid scuttled around to button the back of the dress, she rubbed her sore shoulder while mentally cursing the woman who had done this. The intentions behind the action were clear as day: the woman was unhappy with Éomer's preference for Lothíriel. This sort of behavior was relatively common in the court at Minas Tirith, and to Lothíriel, the intrigue tasted staler than ever.

The remainder of her toilette passed without any further physical discomfort, and pausing only to fetch a silk shawl, Lothíriel swept from the room with her chin held high, determined not to allow any tyrannical behavior to affect her. In the back of her mind, she remembered that she loved Éomer, and it made her feel glowy and tingly.

The foyer to the hall was empty apart from a pair of smartly-clad pages, and Lothíriel strode towards the open door of glittering lights and noise. It seemed that she was the last arrival—she saw her father in silver speaking to Elessar, easily visible with his height. Faramir and Éowyn were near the dais, welcoming guests to supper. At the long tables, most seats were filled with silken-clad ladies and men wearing capes.

As she stood there, watching, eyes began to turn towards her, and the clamor of conversations sunk into whispers. Lothíriel tried to keep her flush at bay, and she regarded the stares coolly. Let them look. She had done nothing to be ashamed of.

"You look wonderful."

Goosepimples broke along her neck as the words were murmured into her ear. A warm hand brushed along her arm, and Lothíriel turned to see Éomer, of course—towering over her and looking extremely smug. He was clean and formally dressed, and her heart swelled.

"Were you waiting for me?" she asked, too emboldened by his compliment to remember that loving him frightened her.

"Perhaps. Do you mind?"

"Nay, I do not."

"And dare I hope you forgive me for demanding a kiss?" Éomer's eyes were positively dancing; Lothíriel knew that he did not regret it one bit.

"In front of my father, you dolt!" she accused, and prodded him with a finger. "How could you?"

He laughed loudly, the sound echoing in the hall. Lothíriel did not turn to see if they had garnered more attention. She looped her arm through his, and he patted her hand. "I suspected that Imrahil would not mind  _too_ much," Éomer said cheerily after a moment. "Your father is no prude."

"Yes, that is clear enough."

"Will you take a turn around the garden with me?"

Lothíriel blinked up at him, startled at this change. But there was no guile in his eyes.

"Assuming you are not famished, that is," Éomer added.

"There were plenty of refreshments at the tournament," she said with a smile. "I would be happy to walk with you." And she could not have eaten with the flutters in her belly, anyway, though she did not say this.

"Let me fetch your cloak."

The night air was bitterly cold, and Lothíriel realized the folly of leaving the protection of Faramir's house. She had spent the entire day out of doors, and now she would become chilled again. Éomer's arm around her shoulders lent her some extraneous warmth, however. The moon and stars above were bright, causing their path to gleam silver. The dusting of snow crunching underfoot; it seemed few others had braved the gardens as yet. She shivered, and Éomer pulled her closer—and she could not help a whimper.

Immediately he grip loosed. "Are you alright?"

"I am well—only my shoulder is a bit sore."

"Sore?"

Lothíriel did not want to relate to him of the woman in the entrance hall. It reflected badly on  _her_ , she felt. But how could it? She had done nothing to the woman herself. And the very thought of lying to Éomer yet again felt too heavy a burden, and she sighed. "Someone pushed passed me in the crowd," she said.

He was silent for a moment. "No accident, I must guess, if it is still paining you.

"No."

Éomer's brows furrowed, and his arm dropped to her waist, where he held tightly. "Shameful," he muttered. "Why?"

Lothíriel could have laughed—did he not know? She might have laughed! "Your kissing me in full view of the guests has caused some jealousy, Éomer. Perhaps you do not realize how popular you are amongst the ladies! Is that true? Or must I accuse you of false modesty?"

He was quiet, and she saw that his jaw was now clenched. Had she said the wrong thing? Her smile froze on her face—oh,  _no_.

"I only question it because you are not to blame," Éomer said, and his voice was hard. "It is my actions that must cause jealousy, because I have chosen you. The kiss was my doing. If anyone else has complaints, they ought to come to  _me_  and push into  _my_  shoulder."

Flattered as she was by his gallant defense, Lothíriel wondered at what he had said—he had  _chosen_ her. But...had he really? "I do not think anyone will," she said with humor to quickly pass the uncomfortable moment. "I present an easier target, not being as tall as a tree."

Éomer laughed at that. "Then perhaps I ought not to leave you anymore. I will carry you on my shoulders to protect you from ill-wishers, if I must."

"How kind of you!"

"Nay, 'tis very selfish, I assure you."

They turned along the path, sparse tree limbs making eerie shapes in the dim light. It was quiet here, and the exercise had kept Lothíriel relatively warm. Their breaths were creating puffy white clouds. Oddly, despite the cold, she felt completely at peace in that moment. It was pleasant to be with Éomer, even trodding through snow.

"I am glad that there are no flowers to bother you," he told her, and he was grinning.

She chuckled. "Oh, yes. Winter  _could_  be my favorite season, if it were not so cold."

"Hmm. Winters in Rohan are very cold, I am afraid."

"Yes, and I hear there is a lot of grass—I shall have to make do."

"Then I doubly grateful that you are so plucky! Lothíriel, I—well…" Éomer trailed off, and Lothíriel stared up at him. He was not one to stumble about his teasing, and she was surprised to see the tips of his ears were red. Or what that from the cold? But his eyes glinted just the same, and without warning he pulled her close and kissed her.

She was slightly more prepared this time, and the dizziness did not come. Her feet were firmly on the ground, and she accounted for every bit of her body working as it ought so as not to swoon again. Then she could give her attention to Éomer—his beard was rasping against her chin, but not unpleasantly. Lothíriel felt warmth from his mouth which seeped into her, causing a glow of heat from her lips to her breast and at last to all of her tingling limbs. She clung to him without meaning to, but he did not seem to mind one bit.

When he pulled away, Lothíriel could do nothing but gaze up at him and his darkened eyes, and her own fluttered shut as she sighed with contentment. A  _much_  better kiss than their first. His lips brushed against her cheek, and then her jaw, and she sighed again.

"So," he said into her ear. "Are you going to tell me your secret?"

"My—my  _secret_?" she said in a squeak.

"Yes."

It seemed almost unfair—for him to positively muddled her mind this way and expect her to keep her wits! Every bit of warmth dissipated from her body, and she shivered, pulling away from his roving lips.

"I…I have no secret."

Éomer blinked slowly down at her. His hands were tight on her upper arms, and if she was not mistaken, she saw the barest trace of a frown. "Do you not?" he said, his tone was light. "You said the first night we met that a woman must keep her secrets. I am not so blind to think that you have been completely honest with me, and I would prefer to know the woman I am marrying before the fact."

A burn of shame brought a new heat to her face, completely different than her previous arousal, and she clenched her jaw. She did not like this stern Éomer at all. Even if she  _were_ to confess to him her idiocy, it would not be to this judgemental king!

"I like you, Lothíriel," he continued after a moment. "But I am no fool." And he released her at once, taking one of her shaking hands and holding it tightly to his arm as they turned on the snow-strewn path back towards Faramir's house.

Tears watered her pillow that night, long after the maid had doused the candles and Lothíriel was left alone. Oh, what had she done? The prickings of conscience which she had suffered when Éomer  _had_  treated her with his gallant kindness grew and warped into a greater shame than she had ever felt before. Even the resentment which had spurned her on such a scheme to become queen was  _nothing_  compared to the agony which wracked her now.

She loved Éomer, truly she did, with all the intensity and turmoil of a first love. As equal as her adoration of the man was her feeling of having wronged him utterly. Her meddling ensured that they would marry: her love of him gave a potential for happiness, and her lying to him all the likelihood of positive misery for them both. Éomer knew she was withholding from him. But she  _wanted_  to marry him, oh so badly! The reckless Lothíriel wanted to keep him for herself, disregarding the misery she would knowingly and eventually bring upon them by her dishonesty. It was enough that no other woman would have him.

But a newer Lothíriel, barely fledgling, was not so selfish. Nourished by both Éomer's good humor, Éowyn's kindness and the absence of her old friends and worthless pursuits, it begged her to cry off the wedding. She could not, in good conscience, bind a man to her for life based on a lie!

Oh, but if he  _knew_  that her interest in him had been born by vain revenge…he would never wed her. And Lothíriel could not live without him. Without his goodness, she would be prey to her own shallow nature, and now knowing of a better way to live, she would shrivel and fade.

Or Éomer would never forgive her her duplication...and their unhappiness would be both lifelong and complete.

She was likely to be miserable either way. But could she allow him to suffer as well?


	9. Chapter 9

“What do you think of them?”

Lothíriel dragged herself to the present from her hollow thoughts, forcing a smile for her cousin as a puppy bounded into his lap, yowling. She was shivering despite the insulation of Faramir’s kennels. The smell of dog was hot and musky, but not unpleasant. At another time she would have been pleased to spend the morning among canines.

“They look very well,” she said, keeping her voice light. “Just weaned, you said?”

“Yes. I have had several offers of purchases; evidently Farad is well-known in Minas Tirith as the best hunting dog in Gondor, and as these are his first pups, the wedding guests agreed to take the trip in winter a bit _too_ eagerly, I think.”

“Will you sell them all?” Lothíriel asked. She bent down, picking the smallest from the pile of wrestling puppies, and it squirmed in her hands to be released back into the fray.

“Éowyn is considering one for herself,” Faramir smiled. “And one is for you.”

“M—me? Are you sure?”

“You are fond of dogs, I believe.”

“Of course.”

A glinting light entered Faramir’s eyes, not unlike her Éomer’s when he was going to tease. “I was going to make it a betrothal gift.”

Lothíriel gave a laugh, but it rang false in her ears. “Perhaps you should reconsider—Éomer is already peeved at the idea of my bringing Muron to Meduseld. He may not appreciate a pup as well.”

“I have already spoken to him, and he made no objections. In fact, he said a dog may keep your cat in line.”

It was just the sort of thing Éomer would say! A glow of warmth for Éomer’s humor, and then it shuddered and faded into shame. “When did you speak to him?” she asked curiously.

“Last night, after you left the feast,” Faramir told her.

“Ah.” Absently Lothíriel ruffled the pup’s ears, and at last gave in to his complaints and set him back down to attack his siblings. 

“Are you going to choose one?”

“N—no. I rather think Éomer ought to choose, since Muron was my doing.”

Faramir was silent for a moment, and she felt his eyes on her. She in turn affected no concern, smiling at the pile of puppies. “If you say,” her cousin said at last. “Lothíriel, you are not looking well. Are you unhappy?”

Her eyes prickled with tears at his kindness. How could she be surrounded by such good people and remain as uncaring as ever? “I can have no complaints,” Lothíriel murmured, and added with a tremble in her voice, “There is too much goodness around me to be ungrateful. You, my father, Éowyn...Éomer.”

Faramir chuckled to himself. “You mustn't think that because we care for you that you are not allowed your own feelings!”

“I cannot trust my own feelings. My head must rule.”

Her tone must have revealed more than she intended, for Faramir did not press the point.

The cloud of gloom and shame followed Lothíriel through the following days; as her betrothal feast approached it seemed that her nausea regarding the event worsened. The morning of, she woke trembling from head to toe with dread.

She could not marry Éomer. Not like this.

She had barely seen him since the night of the tournament, and she wondered if he was avoiding her. Whether or not he was—Lothíriel supposed it was a taste of how he would treat her if they married because of a lie. She could not live with his disapproval, no matter how desperately she loved him.

Forcing herself out of bed, Lothíriel quickly wrapped herself in a dressing gown and rushed from her chamber. It was still early; most of the nobility were nowhere to be seen. She did pass by Erchirion, who stared after her, but she did not heed his call.

She was out of breath when she at last arrived at Éomer’s chambers, pounding on the door for all she was worth. Her heart was racing— _what would she say_?—but there was no response. She banged on the door again, and mid-knock it opened.

A tall, blond man whom she did not recognize was staring down at her, his light eyes widening. Evidently scarcely-dressed women did not come calling upon his king often, for he appeared too astonished to speak.

“I need to speak to Éomer at once,” Lothíriel said quickly.

“ _Hwæt_?”

She stomped her foot in frustration. He did not speak Westron—some of the Rohirrim did not, of course, but she had not expected such an obstacle to Éomer. So she would be using her Rohirric sooner than she expected! Pulling herself together as the man’s amusement grew, she began,

“Er, I need…” Oh, why could she not think? Her hands were shaking, and she clasped them together. “To speak...” Lothíriel was misusing her tenses, she knew, but it was hardly a moment for thinking!

“Who?”

“Your king. I need to speak to you king!” The words were strange to speak aloud.

“My king? Éomer King?" 

“Yes!” Lothíriel cried in relief.

The man was clearly not bothered by her urgency, and said, “You are Lothíriel Cwén.”

She pursed her lips in frustration. She could only hope the man was referring to her a princess, not a queen. “Yes, I am. I—please—Éomer—”

“I am sorry, my lady. Éomer King is not here. He left to ride with Lady Éowyn after breakfast."

Oh, curse her luck! Would she be brave enough to tell Éomer the truth later? She must be. Lothíriel drew herself up to her full height, which was admittedly less impressive than this Rohir, and asked, “Who are you?"

Immediately the man bowed low, as if suddenly remembering his manners. “I am called Aldred, my lady .”

“Aldred, you are to tell Éomer King that I - I wish to see - er…” Lothíriel swallowed, sure that her face was bright red. “I wish to see him. Immediately.”  

"Yes, my lady."

“Thank you. Good morning, Aldred.”

“I wish you a good day, my lady.” He bowed again, and after an uncomfortable moment Lothíriel turned to walk back to her chambers, feeling subdued and more than a little apprehensive.

Their betrothal would be announced that evening. Would Éomer see her before then? Surely he would not disregard her asking for him. But if he truly was avoiding her? She did not know. They had to speak sometime…she could only hope it would be before the feast. For his sake, and hers.

 

* * *

 

Éomer chewed thoughtfully upon a piece of straw, his eyes fastened upon the dull sight of a ceiling. Only a few shafts of sunlight were streaming in through the roof to lighten his surroundings; it being a new roof and the sun weak in the winter. Dust floated along in the air, unheeding of the troubled thoughts of the man they brushed against.

He was lying in the hayloft of Faramir’s spacious guest stables, escaped from the chaos and noise of the continuing wedding festivities which had met himself and Éowyn as soon as they’d returned from their morning ride. As was his habit, he had come to seek solace in the familiar huffs and whinnies of beasts. Horses were predictable; they offered no judgement, not even glancing at him in askance when he had climbed the ladder and settled himself upon a pile of hay with no explanation.

Sometimes he liked horses better than people.

Well, not _all_ people. Many, perhaps even most, he quite liked. But that hardly made them predictable; or even fathomable.

Without particularly wishing it, Éomer recalled an odd conversation he had had (or which had been delivered to him) several months earlier in Minas Tirith. He could not recall the lady in question who had stopped him in Merethrond, though the fierce and angry expression in her eyes was as poignant in his mind as ever.

 _“Lothíriel does not care for you_ !” the girl had told him. _“She does not give a fig about anyone! Her interests are mercenary; and if you misbelieve me, ask her yourself…_ ”

Éomer had not asked her. Truthfully, that admonition—surely meant to be a shock—had not been particularly surprising. He had put it from his thoughts, however; dismissing it as jealousy or yet another display of pettiness which he had come to expect from the court in Minas Tirith.

There was a slow, quiet squeak as the door to the stables was pushed open. Éomer continued to stare at the rafters; likely it would be the stablehands come to distribute meals, or a soldier or noble to check upon his mount. But the soft footfalls did not sound like a stablehand or a soldier.

Curiosity getting the better of him, Éomer rolled onto his side to glance through the wooden beams to the stable floor below. A small figure stood nearly directly below him, clad in a blue cloak and appearing, by all accounts, nervous. Surprise drew him nearer to the edge—it was Lothíriel! Though she was gazing away from him and at the horses ‘round her, he would recognize those beautiful dark curls anywhere. She sighed, and now more astonished than ever he watched as she walked timidly up to Firefoot, offering a single, shaking hand.

“H—hello.” Her voice was small. “I cannot remember your name—but perhaps you remember me?” Firefoot was sniffing her hand, his ears perked forward in interest. Éomer hid a smile at his stallion; Firefoot likely was searching for a treat. He found none, and Lothíriel was subject to an indignant huff of breath in her face. She coughed delicately, pulling a handkerchief from her reticule and wiping at the horse slobber on her hand. Éomer did not bother hiding a smile at this.

“Do you know where your master is?” She asked the horse next. If he was not mistaken, there was a wavering tone in her voice; of misery, perhaps, or annoyance or nerves—

Firefoot snorted. Éomer ducked back behind a beam. He could read his steed’s movements very well, interpreting the shake of the head as, _He’s right above you, lady!_ , but Lothíriel clearly did not understand.

“Ah, well,” she was saying. “‘Twas an off chance, I suppose.” She glanced around the stables once more, but not above her. Éomer felt grateful for that; while normally he would have hailed her already, he was still too absorbed in his troubled thoughts to hold a rational conversation. He would have liked to speak to her, though, and he would have liked to see her flush…

Lothíriel patted Firefoot’s nose in parting, and without further delay she turned and was gone in an elegant sweep of her cloak, shutting the stable door behind her with a thud. Éomer stared at the door long after she was gone, his chin resting in his hand as he thought of his soon-to-be betrothed. She was very nice to think of…except when she worried him. Which she was doing at present.

A disapproving snort from below jolted him back.

“What?” Éomer asked his stallion reproachfully. “I was only thinking.”

Firefoot’s head was tilted upwards, and he gave his master a slow blink.

“I am _not_ being uncharitable,” Éomer insisted. “I am merely…giving Lothíriel a respite from my company.”

A pause.

“Yes, _I know she was looking for me_ , you fiend. And I will see her tonight! Sooner than that, if she is so desperate.”

The horse was not impressed. Annoyed and rather feeling like if Firefoot could speak there would be a lecture (and perhaps even a well-earned one), Éomer flicked the straw from between his teeth, and it fluttered to the ground. He stood with a sigh, brushing dust and hay from his trousers.

“I am glad you like her, even though she did not bring you a treat.” he said patiently. “Truly, your compassion astounds me.” Éomer descended the ladder, jumping past the last rungs to the ground. There was a sack full of apples hanging out of reach of any of the horses, and grumbling, Éomer fetched one to give to Firefoot.

“Thank you for not making it more obvious that I was listening,” he said, ruffling the stallion’s ears as he snapped up the apple between greedy lips. Firefoot began to stiff around Éomer’s tunic, and with resignation he shook his head.

“I have nothing else,” Éomer said crossly. “Now, may I leave?”

Disappointed, Firefoot returned his gaze to his master, and his sentiments were clear as day. _What are you going to do?_

“I am going to wash up, of course.” Éomer’s voice was dry as he absently patted the horse’s neck. It was not the answer his friend was wishing for, but…well, maybe it was a fine thing he had decided to hide in the stables that afternoon. He felt composed. He knew what he wanted to do.

“I think,” he said slowly. “I think I am going to go choose one of Faramir’s pups after all. You may have to share you stall one of these days, you know.” But Firefoot’s relieved huff of hair showed no annoyance at such a prospect. Feeling rather light in the step, Éomer traced Lothíriel’s steps out of the stable with a smile on his lips.


	10. Chapter 10

When she at last heard the long-awaited knock at her door, Lothíriel dropped the silver hand-mirror onto her vanity, and it clanged. She had been scrutinizing the embellishments her maid had made for the feast that night—that  _ hour _ , in fact. Éomer had cut it close, and beneath her terrifying anxiety there was annoyance for his delay. 

 

She rose, trying not to wrinkle the carefully-pressed folds of her burgundy gown as she called, her voice breaking, “Enter!”

 

The door was out of the light glowing from the hearth, but there was no mistaking Éomer as he entered, closing the door gently behind him. He stepped forward, his face coming into view at last; barely holding back a smile and—

 

He was holding one of Faramir’s pups close to his chest. It was yowling, evidently at odds with the embroidered ribbon around its neck. As she stared, it caught one of Éomer’s fingers with its paws and began to gnaw on it. His smile turned to a wince.

 

Her eyes filled with traitorous tears,  and Lothíriel clasped a hand over her mouth to keep from sobbing. Oh, how could she speak to him, to deny herself the love she so desperately wanted while he held a  _ puppy _ ? 

 

Éomer’s eyes were on her face, but she could not meet them. Shame was burning her cheeks, and all which she needed to say was lodging in her throat—oh, why had she thought she could do this—

 

A grin grew on his face at her hesitation. “ _ Ic ne dyde cunnan ic céas a snotere brýd.” _

 

Lothíriel forced her lips apart. “I only understand parts of that,” she said severely. “Éomer, really—my Rohirric is quite bad.”

 

“I cannot believe that!” Éomer said, and the familiar glint was in his eyes. “Aldred said your accent was quite charming. I should like to hear it myself.” He gave her a moment to scowl at him before continuing, “I only said that I did not know I chose such a clever bride.”

 

An awkward silence followed.

 

“I cannot be your bride, Éomer,” Lothíriel said. Her stomach was turning, her head was spinning...she clenched her hands together, unsure if she was imagining the small smile on his face. Oh, why did he had to be so  _ cheerful _ ? It might’ve been easier if had continued to be withdrawn and disappointed… 

 

“Is that so?” he asked lightly, glancing down as he scratched the top of the pup’s head. “What should we name him?”

 

“ _ We _ ? Éomer, do you not—”

 

“Oh, of course I understand. I suspect I am about to hear your secret. Shall we make him a match of your Muron, and name him Hund?”

 

Lothíriel grit her teeth together in frustration. The pup was squirming around in Éomer’s hands, and at last he set it down on the ground. Immediately the dog began to sniff around Lothíriel’s chamber, the ribbon dragging along on the floor. Her heart wrenched at the sight, and as she gazed at the pup Éomer stepped closer to her, picking up her hands. Startled, her eyes were drawn up to him. 

 

“Well? What have you to say for yourself?” His inquiry was posed with no trace of anger or disappointment; in fact, he seemed merely curious. It would be a terrible comedown for him, Lothíriel knew, once he knew the truth. She gently extracted her hands from his. 

 

“Éomer, when we—um, that night that we met the first time—” Her voice faltered, and she flushed at the warmth in his eyes. Oh, it was hardly fair he muddled her mind so much! He was so near she could smell his wonderful scent, and it comforted and excited her all at once. Lothirel steeled herself, and pressed on. 

 

“I deceived you that night.”

 

His lips twitched the tiniest bit. “Oh?”

 

“Yes. And I meant to! I wanted—” Her mouth closed, as if her very body was rebelling from telling Éomer the truth. No!  _ She _ was her mistress, not her body and all its responses. 

 

“I was angry!” Lothíriel cried aloud, forcing herself to speak even at the cost of her appearance of calm. “All the men I had known in my life, who had always admired _ me _ and paid  _ me _ attention and favors deserted me for Queen Arwen and your sister! Oh, Éomer!” she said in agony, “I was so bitter! The only way I could see that might regain me that admiration back was to become a queen myself. And—well, I am sorry. You were the only one…” Her voice trailed off, her zeal all but spent. 

 

“That is one mystery solved,” Éomer said, and she started at the gleam of his grin. He was  _ smiling _ ? How could he not be angry? He must not understand!

 

“I do not like horses,” Lothíriel blurted. “Not one bit! I had never ridden Amrothos’s horse before that morning, and I—”

 

“I know that much!” he said with a sudden laugh. “Do you truly think you could deceive a lord of horses into believing you can ride, when you so clearly cannot?”

 

Her face felt scarlet. 

 

“I must make my own confession now,” Éomer continued to her silence. The light in his eyes was softening, and his thumb brushed along her cheek, surprising her with his gentleness. “I knew you were lying to me the very night we met. But I was curious to know  _ why _ and  _ what _ had driven you to do so, and I let you continue your course. I surmised that you had a reason to give me your attentions; otherwise, why else would such a beautiful, popular woman by all accounts, put herself to such troubles for my sake?”

 

_ Because you are a king, you dolt! _ , was her initial response. But Lothíriel was too stunned at his revelation. Was she so transparent? 

 

“But—” she tried again, “I asked my father to arrange a match for no better reason than petty revenge! Éomer, you  _ must  _ hate me.”

 

“Hate you? Oh, no!” he said with a laugh, “I could not, even if I tried.”

 

Lothíriel blinked stupidly. 

 

“Do you understand yet, my girl?” Éomer asked, his eyes twinkling maddingly. “Somewhere between your accidental reveals of your true self and the mystery of your motives,  _ I _ have fallen thoroughly in love. You are a curious woman, my Lothíriel, and I want to know you more deeply. Beyond your spirit and determination, and more of your good heart which you try so desperately to hide.” 

 

She could not breathe—did he not know what he was saying? How could he love her—she was  _ awful _ —

 

Éomer picked up her hands again, clasping them tightly in his large, warm ones. His eyes were full of warmth and affection, and his intensity nearly frightened her. “I wanted to know, my dear—and I still do—what makes your little heart beat.” 

 

“But—” Lothíriel started to say, despite the flutters in her belly at this speech. “But—Éomer, do you not know—”

 

“I think we have already established that yes, I do know,” he said pleasantly. “It is only your reason for wanting me in the first place that I did not. I know a lie when I hear one, Lothíriel, even when delivered from your beguiling lips.” 

 

He paused a moment, then continued thoughtfully, “Though it took some practice, I became quite good at recognizing when you were revealing things about yourself that you perhaps didn’t wish me to know. Your fondness for small animals, for instance,” Éomer gave a beaming grin, “I couldn’t have fallen in love with you otherwise. Such things often portray softer feelings than what one wishes.”

 

Her fire was all but gone. Lothíriel was left with only a whisper, “How can you forgive me so frankly?” 

 

“Well—love is a rather fascinating thing, do you not agree?” Éomer’s amusement was back. “My love forgives your mistakes, and if I may presume— _ your _ love has changed you.”

 

“My— _ my _ love?”

 

There was his mischievous grin again! “You can tell me that you love me yourself, if you like,” he said cheerily. “I will willingly listen. Or I can tell you  _ how  _ I know.”

 

“Because you evidently know  _ everything _ ,” Lothíriel snapped, even as her face grew hot again. “Éomer, you really ought to be ashamed of yourself!” But even as she spoke, the sense of injustice kept her from continuing what was promising to be a very severe reprimand. 

 

“Ashamed? For allowing you to travel your own path, instead of confronting you that first night? I could have—I was tempted to, at least. But it would have been unkind of me, and I suspect you would have grown to hate me for it. I never wanted that.” 

  
She hesitated. “Well—you would not have  _ really _ married me, then. Not since you knew I was trying to decieve you.”

 

Éomer’s brows lifted, ever so slightly. “I wonder that myself. Do you think so?”

 

Lothíriel did not know what to think. Here was the man she loved, who knowing of her love, was forgiving her unforgivable behavior and somehow still loved her in return. Again she took her hands from Éomer, lifting her chin with her final dregs of pride.

 

“I still cannot marry you,” she said. “I have lied, and—and schemed and...Éomer, I am not fit to be queen, and I do not deserve your love. I understand this and I have accepted it, painful as it is. Whatever misery must come to me as is my due, I will not allow to be forced upon you as well. I cannot even say that I am sorry for it—I love you too much to willingly see you suffer.”

 

“And I love  _ you _ too much to let this keep us from happiness!” He spoke with a definite tremble in his voice; seemingly stifling laughter, and she pressed her lips together in anger. Why did he not believe her? 

 

“Ah, do not let my teasing upset you…” Éomer’s expression turned repentant, and there was a bare trace of a frown. “I can hardly speak in earnest! I do not care about your failings, Lothíriel, providing you do not care about mine—only that we will love each other and grow together. You may sacrifice your pride, if you need to, but do not sacrifice  _ me. _ ”

 

Oh, how could this be? She tried to stifle the blossoming of hope in her breast, but to little avail, and tears sprung to her eyes. Could he be speaking truth? Well, of  _ course _ , a part of her said sardonically. Éomer did not lie. 

 

“I am not fit to be queen,” Lothíriel repeated, in a final attempt to dissuade him from this mistake. This mistake that she so dearly wished to make!

 

“You will be!” Éomer assured her with a smile. “Oh, Lothíriel, everyone must learn to be worthy of their work! Even I—yes,  _ I _ —perfect as I am, have struggled adapting to be king. And fortunately for  _ you _ , I can provide some adept guidance.”

 

“You—you can? You would?” Somehow her words were not quite matching her sentiments; her tongue seemed to not be working at all.

 

“Of course! I love you, and I wish for you to exceed every expectation. Lothíriel, please—must I get down on my knees and beg? Do not persist thinking that you mustn’t marry me!”

 

The image of Éomer, tall and overbearing as he was, kneeling at her feet to pander broke through her other thoughts, and she stifled a giggle. Then it burst forth, and her laughter rang in the chamber. 

 

“I should like to see that!” Lothíriel exclaimed. “Would you, please? For my own amusement.”

 

His smile was positively smug. “If I have already convinced you, then certainly not! A man must maintain  _ some _ dignity, where at all possible.”

 

“Oh—I  _ am _ disappointed…” 

 

Somehow his arms came to be wrapping around her waist, and she was pressed tightly to his chest. Éomer’s grin made her feel limp and warm all over, and she wound her arms around his neck. 

 

“If this—if  _ we _ are a failure, we have only you to blame,” Lothíriel said severely. “You have convinced me, even against my better judgement.”

 

“I think  _ my  _ judgment is better, in this instance, for it shan’t lead to mutual misery.” His eyes were twinkling, and she could not take him seriously. “We may attend our own betrothal, then, I hope? They must be waiting for us.”

 

“They can wait.”

 

“Oh? And what do you have in mind to spend our time, now that we are reconciled at last?”

 

Lothíriel gazed at him, allowing all the love in his eyes to seep into her heart and spread across her entire being. It was a wonderful, wonderful feeling—she would suffer the last autumn time and time again just for this moment of being whole and utterly, completely loved. She wondered how she had been so fortunate, but decided never to cease to show her gratitude. He forgave  _ her _ . He wanted  _ her _ !

 

“ _ Ic lufe þu, _ ” she said simply.

 

“ _ Ond ic þu _ .  _ Fulgód Rohirric, mín lufu, ic—” _

 

But she didn’t want any more teasing at present, and kissed him. 

  
  


“There is one thing I still do not understand.”

 

Lothíriel could not help a slight shiver. Her now-betrothed’s breath was warm on her neck, and his words, whispered in her ear just for her, were thankfully audible despite the raucous feast going on around them. 

 

“Oh? What is that?”

 

Éomer’s eyes were sparkling in the dim light, he was clearly hiding a smile though she could see a shadow of it on his lips. She tried not to stare at his lips. 

 

“I understand that you were seeking restitution for—ah, your apparent fall from grace. But if you wished for help, why did you not explain to me your conundrum? Why did I have to be deceived as well?”

 

Lothíriel’s cheeks turned pink; not only from his introspective queries but from his warm arm around her shoulders. They had arrived at their betrothal feast late and utterly absorbed in each other; she was sure she had not been listening when her father spoke the words of binding over them at the start. She liked having Éomer near, even if he did appear intent on quizzing her to discomfort. 

 

“Well,” she said slowly. “How was I to know you would be willing to play a part for my sake? For all I knew of you, you would refuse and let it be known publicly that I was a scheming fraud.”

 

“Hmm. I suppose I must understand that.” Éomer’s voice was thoughtful. “But I can tell you now—I would have enjoyed acting such a pretence with you, very much.”

 

“You are merely saying that because you like me  _ now _ ,” Lothíriel retorted. “Would the Éomer of last spring have done such a thing for a woman he did not know?”

 

“The Éomer of Always appreciates jokes, and he perhaps has a certain weakness for women in need.”

  
Her brows lifted ever so slightly, and without warning he burst into laughter at his own teasing. Likely they were drawing attention, but for once…Lothiriel did not care. She sighed and leaned close to Éomer, and he rewarded her with a kiss on her head. 

 

“Very well!” he allowed. “I am satisfied on this point.”

 

“Good,” she said in a murmur, closing her eyes.

 

“Next time, my girl—you must warn me first.”

 

“ _ Next _ time? Whatever makes you think there will be a next time? I could be the most scorned woman in Arda, and still be happy as long as I have  _ you _ .”

 

Her chin was tilted upwards, and Lothíriel blinked to see Éomer gazing down at her with a fierce intensity. But it was not a frightening intensity; it cause heat to flood her veins and pool in her belly. He cleared his throat and leaned down to kiss the tip of her nose, and the spell between them was broken.

 

“I have a betrothal gift for you,” he said. “It is custom in Rohan, though I have learned that it is not custom here.”

 

“Oh? What is it?” 

 

“Traditionally, a horse,” Éomer grinned now. “I am surprised you did not see her in the stables yesterday; she was—” He broke off, and clamped his mouth shut.

 

Curiously, Lothíriel asked, “How did you know I was in the stables yesterday, Éomer?”

 

“Er—” The tips of his ears were definitely red. She stifled a laugh at this; Éomer rarely blundered, and his reaction was proving quite amusing. “I, er—I may have overheard you speaking to Firefoot.”

 

Lothíriel felt her own flush threatening. 

 

“Anyways,” he hurried on, “If you are willing, I would be more than pleased to assist in accustoming the pair of you to each other; I know you do not care for horses very much, but she is a sturdy mare, and shan’t hold it against you. I am afraid you may have to do a  _ lot _ of riding, as queen of Rohan. And as my wife.” Éomer’s lips were twitching again at the end of his spiel, and she laughed nervously. 

 

“Oh, dear! I must certainly agree to remedial riding lessons, then.”

 

“I assure you that your teacher is extraordinarily patient; there is no need to worry!”

 

Lothíriel shook her head, laughing again at his mischievous smile. “Oh, Éomer! You are absurd.”

 

“But not too absurd to love?”

 

She smiled up at him, gently tracing the stitch of his tunic with her finger. He was grinning, undoubtedly ready to continue teasing. “No,” Lothíriel said softly. “Not quite.”

 

“Good.” 

 

And she was given a real, lingering, heart-thudding kiss, and the rest of the world spun away.


	11. Chapter 11

"Éomer! What is that noise?"

Drawn from a restful reprieve by a rough shaking of his shoulders, he reluctantly woke, blinking in the dark of the bedchamber towards his wife. Lothíriel was leaning toward him, her eyes wide with confusion and sleepy fear.

"What noise?" he asked hoarsely.

"Do you not hear? From—from the hearth, I think."

Éomer yawned, glancing over at the empty hearth—it was Midsummer, after all—and heard to his surprise a strange yowling cry. He groaned, rubbing his eyes. "It sounds like Muron."

"Muron has never made that sound in his life! I am sure of it." Lothíriel's face was pinched with worry, and Éomer sighed.

"A mouse, then? Surely it will be Muron's breakfast, if so."

Lothíriel frowned. "It does not sound like a mouse, either—and Muron already would have caught it, I am sure of that."

"I suppose you are wanting me to find out exactly what is making the noise," he said.

"Please."

It was impossible to deny his wife at the best of times, and in her current condition she tended to have odd frights. Best to do as she wished, then he might sleep again all the sooner. Éomer swung his legs over the bed, fetching the lit taper on a small table and making for the hearth.

As soon as he crouched down, shining the light of the candle in the dark stone hearth, all became clear—he laughed loudly, causing the inhabitants to fuss in alarm and Lothíriel to call, "What is it?" is a very reproachful tone.

"It appears we have made a grave mistake," he said, still chuckling. "For we have always assumed Muron was a  _he_ —did you ever confirm it?"

"No," Lothíriel said after an awkward moment. "I...suppose he never smelled like most tomcats, but I simply considered us lucky."

"Muron is a female, my love. More than that—she is a mother."

Lothíriel's soft gasp was audible, as was the shuffling and slight groaning as she bounded heavily out of bed, making for the hearth as well. Her expression was eager in dim light, smiling hugely at the sight of the tabby with several tiny, rather ugly looking kittens burrowed up at the cat's belly and making the quiet, mewling noises they had heard earlier. Muron was looking decidedly smug, Éomer decided. The new mother was lazily swinging her tail around, gazing up at her mistress as if for approval. Which was readily given.

"Oh, Muron!" Lothíriel cried. "You have given us kittens!"

"Oh,  _Béma_ ," Éomer groaned. "Not more cats underfoot!"

"How can you be so dismissive?" she asked, frowning at him. "It will be some days before the kittens can possibly make nuisances of themselves, and I certainly have no objection to giving them away when they are weaned."

"Good! For I must insist upon it."

"You are an unfeeling brute," his wife said, prodding him in the ribs with a finger and making him wince.

"Yes, but I am  _your_  unfeeling brute, my love. May we return to bed now? My knees are positively creaking."

Lothíriel huffed, but allowed him to help her to stand. She was a bit wobbly on her feet, and Éomer kept his hold on her elbow until she hoisted herself into bed.

"Do you know," he said thoughtfully, replacing the taper before taking his place beside her. "I do not wonder at all why Muron has had kittens."

"She found a friend in the stables, I would wager," Lothíriel's tone was dry, and he laughed.

"Well, yes, but that is not all of it—I think she saw  _you_  increasing and became quite jealous!"

His wife tried to be offended by his teasing, but he reached out to pull her close, her swollen belly only getting in the way—and she joined him in laughter. "Oh, Éomer! Do stop!" she cried, with a little shriek. "Oh, you are squishing the baby!"

"A small amount of hugging will hardly harm a baby!" he said. "Besides, I need you—right here." And Éomer settled her into his arms, her head resting on his shoulder and their legs tangling beneath the covers. He gave a little sigh of contentment—Lothíriel felt so  _wonderful_ beside him, even if her size made it a tad difficult.

"What is it?" she asked, gazing up at him with a quirked brow. "Why do you sigh?"

"No reason!" Éomer said lightly. "Only that I missed you while I was asleep."

"What nonsense!"

"'Tis true, my wife, I assure you." And he planted a lingering kiss on the top of her head.

"You do know," Lothiriel said with a yawn, "It is not  _the thing_  to be in love with your spouse. Let alone to be yearning from them when they are merely an arms' length away."

"Hmm. Well, truth be told, I simply cannot bring myself to care. And I have it on good authority that  _you_ do not care a fig what anyone else thinks either!"

Her cheeks pinked, and Éomer grinned. It gratified him to know that he could still put Lothíriel to blush despite all the months they had been wed. He hoped he could continue to do so for many years to come.

"Éomer?"

"Hmm?" He gently brushed the soft skin of her cheek, where a dimple formed with she smiled.

"I love you."

"And I you. Now go to sleep, my girl. You need your rest, as does the baby."

And with a contented sigh, she did.

* * *

**_The following is a deleted scene which takes place after chapter 4, following Eomer and Lothiriel's discussion in the gardens. It was quite fun to write, but at the end of the day was unnecessary for the characters or the plot. But I wanted to share it anyways. Hope you enjoy!_  **

* * *

 

The music and dancing had begun, and colorful skirts twirled around the massive hall as they entered. This was fortunate, for most of the eyes were on the dancers rather than them, and Lothíriel let loose a breath.

"Do you care to dance tonight, my girl?" Éomer asked, gazing down at her with a grin.

"Not particularly. I am a trifle sore from our ride this morning." Immediately she berated herself for the blunder—how could she admit to him such weakness?

"Quite understandable," he said, eyes dancing. "I have heard there are to be card games—would you prefer exercising your mind?"

Lothíriel's mind was one quality she  _would_ claim. Smiling, she agreed, and they meandered the perimeter of the room. Éomer's height drew attention, and as they passed knots of perfumed ladies whispers broke out. She kept her chin in the air, and did not give them one glance. Her companion appeared utterly unperturbed, and the swept into the next chamber, which had been set aside for those who did not wish to dance.

"Éomer! Come play."

She gritted her teeth to see Amrothos, sitting alone at a table nearby, waving towards them. Of  _course_  he would interfere. Éomer showed no reluctance, for he half-pulled her over towards her brother.

"Good evening, Amrothos!" Éomer said. "May we sit with you?"

Amrothos blinked as he saw evidently saw Lothíriel for the first time upon Éomer's arm, and his eyes darted between them. Then a smile grew. "Of course you may," he said jovially. "Though we shall have to take turns; pal-aran only plays two. I was of half a mind to play by myself, and as we all know that is usually a sign of insanity."

"One of your many," she said silkily as they sat in the straight-backed, wooden chairs at the table. "Why are not you not dancing tonight, Amrothos?"

He grimaced as he began to set several carved pieces on the checkered board. "Eh...I was not feeling quite up to it."

"Lady troubles?" Éomer's amusement was clear, and Lothíriel held back a smile.

"One of Lothíriel's friends," Amrothos admitted. "Numriel. She has claws like a cat; I nearly did not get away."

"Numriel?" Lothíriel asked in surprise.

"Aye. It was clear she wanted something, but I did not know what. Nor did I care to find out. Éomer, would you care to take the first turn?"

Evidently Amrothos had determined that he and Éomer play first, but Lothíriel did not mind. It gave her more time to think, and her mind worked quickly. Numriel had attempted to snag Amrothos—why? It was likely to do with Lothíriel herself, considering their spat that afternoon. Did she want information? Gossip? Probably both. If that was the girl's game, it was well that they had absconded from the hall. She glanced quickly around her—Numriel had not followed them. Her fan was twisted in her hands—Lothíriel forced herself to relax.

Her brother was grinning as he took the first of Éomer's pieces. "Bad luck," he said smugly.

"Pal-aran is not a strength of mine," Éomer chuckled. "Perhaps I should have watched you and Lothíriel play first."

"Lothíriel will help you, I am sure. Won't you, sister?"

She started from her reverie, and said, "Oh—if Éomer wishes my help." Questioningly, she met his eyes, which were as warm as ever. The dimmer light of this chamber did not hide the twinkle there, but Lothíriel sincerely hoped that it hid her flush.

"Let my pride try a bit longer. When I am in imminent danger, I shall call upon you, if I may."

She inclined her head.

"Lothíriel is the best hand at par-aran," Amrothos said by way of conversation, as Éomer took his next move. "I do not think I have bested her for years."

"Do not pay his long-suffering any regard, Éomer," Lothíriel replied dryly. "I am certain Amrothos has  _never_  bested me." Her brother's ears turned red, but with little other choice he laughed along with Éomer. She wished she could kick Amrothos under the table, but her legs were not quite long enough to reach—if he decided to tell any tales of her…

"Your nose is looking decidedly red," her brother noted, glancing up from the board before moving a piece. "Did you take a turn in the gardens?"

"Indeed, I did. And I am quite fine, thank you for your concern."

Silence fell. Éomer was studying the board, and suddenly he tilted his head to the side. "Did you hear something?" he asked, and his eyes fell on Lothíriel. The expression of bafflement on his face turned to knowing, and at her own confusion, he added, "I heard yowling. Like a cat."

She turned pink. "I heard nothing."

"Oh, it was unmistakable, I am sure."

Amrothos was laughing. "This is likely the first time Lothíriel has willingly not heard a cat!" She cast him a deathly stare, but he paid her no heed. "Éomer, have you heard the story of—"

Lothíriel opened her mouth to give her brother the most scathing reprimand, but before the sound left her mouth there was a rustling at the hem of her skirt. She had not the chance to glance over (risking the notice of either man), and there was an unmistakable furry head rubbing into her ankle. She felt a soft, warm vibration.  _Purring_! Oh, great Ulmo below!

"And  _then_ , Lothíriel told Father,  _So help me, if you do not let me keep the poor thing, I will live in the gutter with it!_  Of course Father had little choice—and she was so young she would have been hard to deny, anyway. So that is how we adopted our first cat; Mib, I think she called it. Is that so, Lothíriel?"

"Yes," she said shortly.

"And a few months later Lothíriel found a pregnant cat in the streets, and we suddenly have six more cats! How did you name those? Laes, Emig, Gwinig, Honeg, Niben, and the mother was Cam. Very clever, Father said. But he forced her to give them away to the servant children once they were weaned. Lothíriel cried for  _days_ , I still remember—"

Lothíriel stood abruptly, cutting of Amrothos's horrible story. Both him and Éomer stared at her, and she said dramatically, "I must go!" The claws of the kitten were snagging her hose, and what if they heard it meowing?

"Oh, Lothíriel, it is only a  _story_ , it was years ago—"

But she did not regard her brother; she inched away from the chair, not lifting her feet for fear of trodding on the little kitten. Unfortunately, this gave more time for protestations.

"I will accompany you," Éomer said gallantly, standing as well. He moved as if to take her arm, but Lothíriel shied away. What if  _he_  stepped on the kitten? He stared.

"Er—thank you," she managed, and from some distance offered her hand. There was a smile playing about his lips, and she was sure her flush deepened. "Good evening, Amrothos."

Her brother was frowning. "Are you going to return? I still do not wish to play alone!"

"Yes," Lothíriel snapped. "Wait for us. It will only be a moment." Still she did not dare to move quickly, despite desperately wishing to leave the room. Éomer showed no disinclination at the plodding pace, and patiently walked beside her as they at last passed through the door.

The corridor was empty, and Lothíriel sighed in relief.

"What is it?" Éomer asked in amusement. "Your face is bright red; something has happened."

She swept back her skirt, and sure enough, the little tabby yowled up at her at the sudden light. "You naughty kitten!" Lothíriel chided, bending over to pick it up. "Did you walk all the way here from my father's house? In the dark?"

"The  _cat_!" There was a stunned silence as she determinedly did  _not_  meet Éomer's eyes, and then he burst into laughter. The kitten meowed again, burying into her hands. Lothíriel scowled up at Éomer.

"You are frightening the poor thing," she said severely. "I must take him back at once. This is a terrible place for such a helpless kitten! He could be trod upon by anyone!"

"If you insist," Éomer said, good-natured. "May I escort you?"

"No! I can go alone." Lothíriel spoke too quickly; his brows rose in skepticism. She swallowed, and said, "Amrothos will be wondering where we are. Let us not torture the man by deserting him entirely."

Éomer was near enough that he scratched the top of the kitten's head. It yawned, clearly no longer afeared. "It likes you," he said softly, smiling. Lothíriel barely managed one in return.

"Thank you for your help. I—I will go now."

**Author's Note:**

> Don't think that I am blissfully ignorant of my own character's awfulness. Because guess what - I know. That's the dang plot. Also please don't think that I'm trying to justify somehow Eomer going along with an unlikable woman. That's not the point here.
> 
> I am asking that anyone reading be courteous enough to trust the writer to, you know, develop the characters. In my experience the typical response goes like this: people don't like the depiction of a character in the first chapter(s), decide that these deficiencies are permanent and unsolvable, and then leave angry reviews because they don't like the character. Well of course not! People in stories change. That's why they are worth writing about.
> 
> So be nice. If this Lothíriel isn't your thing and you aren't interested to see her get a few slices of humble pie, move on. But if you are willing to trust me, read on, and I hope you enjoy :)


End file.
